Wet, evergreen hair hanging above the mossy rocks
and leaning on the muddy wall, like a fountain
that rolls down the green hills of unknown countries,
I remember, you were my grandmother’s care.
Your wet, ever green hair still eerily exudes
those swords of golden fire, burning brighter
than the sun on a midsummer day, despite
the absence of the one who loved you most.
I used to and still imagine grandmother, with you,
feisty maidenhair ferns sitting on her head.
Gosh! Grandmother in such modern jeans,
with green hair spread à la Shakira!
Be it with her amazingly immortal guitar,
with green hair “Pee-ka-booing” like a new rockstar,
or in a cool restaurant with cascading hair,
be it in a top or solemn dress with her hair flattened
like an obedient girl, grandmother had a beauty
that belonged only to the wild wind.
The imaginary combo of you two is a comedy
yet to be surpassed by any other memory.
There’s a romantic whisper in your chemistry too.
At least, I can sometimes giggle after grandmother’s
death due to you wet, evergreen maidenhair ferns.