Her Hair
Her Hair
The farmer’s daughter was so beautiful
Her father locked her door at night
To keep the hands he hired
From touching her.
But one night
She tied her long hair to the bedpost
And climbed down it, then cut it
Close to the scalp.
She lives in the city now.
Her hair still hangs there,
Bright blonde against the brick,
Fanning out when there’s wind.
They say her father can’t bear to cut it.