The Mourning Doves
When my mother cuts my hair at noon and it
falls onto the grass, and I wonder
who I am supposed to be,
the mourning doves keep
cooing, and in the raised light my
hair gets a little shorter.
When my mother cuts my hair at noon and it
falls onto the grass, and I wonder
who I am supposed to be,
the mourning doves keep
cooing, and in the raised light my
hair gets a little shorter.