Human hair

The trees show their skins
Without shame, to the cold
They glare back, when we
Hide.

A shedding of hair is akin to
A shedding of complacency

When it was there, we noted
It not, when it is gone, weep

We it’s going, alone, without
A cover for our head, our

Bidding chip for love and more.

Should I keep a lock of it in a
Tin in the Watford soil, a relic
Of my time on this earth past?