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!



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