Becoming Bald
Light shines off my scalp.
It glows off my forehead.
The hairs of my head
are thinning out,
like
a pioneer forest being cleared
patiently by the foreign farmer,
who came to the woods
to carve a plot
from what once was a forest,
rich with dense undergrowth.
In former times,
the thicket would break the wailing winds,
accosting the house and barn.
Now the gales flow freely
throughout the rifled trees.
Peace shone through the branches.
Calm, as the roaring gusts
burst upon the stripped land
and coursed across the barren plain.
As the stiff breeze blew endless,
shingles tumbled off,
siding was lifted and bantered away,
studs creaked and collapsed,
drywall rolled off,
everything scattered,
like all the forest critters
running from a smoky fire.
When the ashes settled,
I saw the whole curve of the earth,
the land shimmering
like
a lake of glass with driven snow,
skating along the frozen pond.