Margaret’s Bun

It was two-thirty on a morning back in sixty-four,

and we met in a small hall between our rooms.

She stood robed with hair fanned over both shoulders,

light from the street made a dark silhouette

of her body.

With her silvery hair flickering

as she faced me,

she turned, and

I could see

the light in her hair

cascaded, falling off her back

to her waist.

It was the only glimpse I recall

of Grandmother,

with her hair down.

The first time​

I noticed​

how beautiful she was​

as a woman.

--Tim Cusick

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