Peggy Hale Bilbro

Now

That middle-aged woman rushing by sports glorious hennaed curls piled up on top of her head. Next to pass is a slender young girl with rich black hair scraped back into a ballerina bun, followed by an elegant lady with thick silvered locks surrounding her barely wrinkled, sculpted cheeks. I examine each of them, my gaze lingering on their beautiful hair. Well, that is them, and this is me, and this is now, damn it. I used to be secretly proud of my own thick waves. Now I check out the Rogaine ads (sorry, doesn’t work for chemo hair loss). Now I mousse my sparse curls in hopes of creating enough volume to cover the pink scalp. Now I try to believe that beauty is deeper than skin, and that being alive is more important than hair. 

drought
the narrowing streams
of snow melt 

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About the Author

Peggy Hale Bilbro and her husband divide their time between Huntsville, Alabama and Guardia Sanframondi, Italy. Her poetry reflects her life-long interest in the large and small miracles of the world, from dust-bunnies to star-dust, from mouse holes to black holes. She finds pleasure in the creative challenge of translating those miracles into poetry.