Her long hair is a ladder, a portal and a twisted muscle.
Creamy matted tresses cease to reflect light and absorb all, like the ferocious spiral of cyclone.
Inside is a nest of baby birds and a pool of turquoise water, a pile of warm blankets, a cave drenched in echoes and a fireworks show.
Curls piled tall on top of her head are an infinite beehive stretching to the stars. This tangled tower of tresses collapses behind her and follows like the train on a decaying gown or a bird whose own extended tail erases her footsteps.
(This bird is from an elusive Anais Nin writing that I’ve been unable to locate again, for years.
Do you know it? )