The Imagination

i just allow my hands to work thru my hair. twisting or braiding in which ever way that my brain tells them to. i seem to be thinking, i seem to only be thinking about what my hands are producing. i am pleased each time i see a beautifully twisted piece of hair. my hands feel soft. my hair feels moisturized. it confuses me sometimes. it curls differently in certain places. it is longer in others. it feels dry at the sides. it feels saturated in the middle. each curl tells me its name. my whole head whispers the gossip of my ancestors. they be telling them grown woman stories.
i’m finally old enough they say.

wisdom sits in my hair. i’m finally beginning to understand how to extract it.