Her face against wall ,back to us
This woman is combing her hair,
Autumn straw of hair in sunshine.
Nature was a buffalo horn crafted
To a comb to create brushstrokes
Of impressionistic art, old beauty

In vintage pastels, serrated clouds
Over the gold of ripe wheat field,
An Icarus dropping in melted wax,
As farmer ploughed nonchalance.

It is all so real, a hair and a sun
While time’s clock twisted nature.
A buffalo horn combs golden hair
In spider webs of a morning sun
And there is no kitsch in nature.