Poetry About Grey Hair

The first silver thread appears above my ear. I almost pluck it, then remember my mother's bright crown. Years have been writing openly while I looked elsewhere. No color can make the lived mornings disappear. I let the strand catch sunlight without apology. Time has signed its name, and I choose to keep it.

I almost pluck it, then remember my mother's bright crown. Age becomes gentler when evidence is not treated as error. No color can make the lived mornings disappear. Even grey Hair keeps more than one meaning in view. Silver can be a record rather than a warning.

The first silver thread appears above my ear. Time carries the image beyond its first appearance. Years have been writing openly while I looked elsewhere. I let the strand catch sunlight without apology. Silver can be a record rather than a warning. Time has signed its name, and I choose to keep it.