Such white hairs glimmer and glint with resolution
As they float and grab and cling to nearly erased invalid assumptions
Such is the accuracy of social cues from someone toward ill
As opposed to someone ill-sorted toward.
Then a sudden gold spot hits the hair
And it celebrates the correct and proper fall
To an earth newly solid
Under feet freshly shod with the righteousness
Of just-born empathy for the commonness of ill-sortedness,
Now tip-toeing a winding path towards self-acceptance.
Now waiting for additions to the laundry list
Now required as rope-lines
Now growing closer together
Now focusing the gaze beneath the
Now whiter-haired, more gleaming-haired
Now resting on strengthening shoulders
Now waving before just comprehended eyes
Now flying before the fresh winds of love.
The experience of cleaning and decorating and arranging and assuring and donating and clustering about refreshments together with those not cueing socially but cueing protestingly willy-nilly out of need and discomfort and ill-gotten love
stimulates a growth in wisdom on the part of the bestowing, waiting-for-cues, one who now knows the desired cues are just floating a microcosm away, just begging for a lodging place in the conciousness of the waiting, white-haired one who
suddenly understands that little voice within the golden light beam to be saying, “Stop thinking, just be. Stop waiting, just love. Stop speaking, just be.” Truly, the white hairs become golden once again!
granbee 