I'm 28 years old in the flesh

    but in a mirror all I can see

    is a boy after his first crew cut，

    five years old and wondering

    what happened to his hair，

    disbelieving it would ever

    grow back， as the barber

    and his grandfather promised，

    while he wept， silently，

    trembling air through his lips，

    pointing at his hair

    strewn across a tiled floor.

    My grandfather unwrapped

    sour balls for both of us， and，

    leaving his Falcon behind，

    walked with me to the woods.

    These woods， he said， are yours.

    They were mine， but I give them

    to you. I am old， and it is only right

    they should now belong to you.

    I have lived most of my life

    in the absence of that

    gentle voice， and those

    woods of mine were clear-cut

    years ago， but my hair，

    I wear it long in honor of him.