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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=547336" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Braiding</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">1.<br>We two sit on our bed, you<br>between my legs, your back to me, your head<br>slightly bowed, that I may brush and braid<br>your hair. My father<br>did this for my mother,<br>just as I do for you. One hand<br>holds the hem of you hair, the other<br>works the brush. Both hands climb<br>as the strokes grow<br>longer, until I use not only my wrists,<br>but my arms, then my shoulders, my whole body<br>rocking in a rower's rhythm, a lover's<br>even time, as the tangles are undone,<br>and brush and bare hand run the thick,<br>fluent length of your hair, whose wintry scent<br>comes, a faint, human musk.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> 2.<br>Last night the room was so cold<br>I dreamed we were in Pittsburgh again, where winter<br>persisted and we fell asleep in the last seat<br>of the 71 Negley, dark mornings going to work.<br>How I wish we didn't hate those years<br>while we lived them.<br>Those were days of books,<br>days of silences stacked high<br>as the ceiling of that great, dim hall<br>where we studied. I remember<br>the thick, oak tabletops, how cool<br>they felt against my face<br>when I lay my head down and slept.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> 3.<br>How long your hair has grown. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gradually, December. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> 4.<br>There will come a day<br>one of us will have to imagine this: you,<br>after your bath, crosslegged on the bed, sleepy, patient,<br>while I braid your hair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> 5.<br>Here, what's made, these braids, unmakes<br>itself in time, and must be made<br>again, within and against<br>time. So I braid<br>your hair each day.<br>My fingers gather, measure hair,<br>hook, pull and twist hair and hair.<br>Deft, quick, they plait,<br>weave, articulate lock and lock, to make<br>and make these braids, which point<br>the direction of my going, of all our continuous going.<br>And though what's made does not abide,<br>my making is steadfast, and, besides, there is a making<br>of which this making-in-time is just a part,<br>a making which abides<br>beyond the hands which rise in the combing,<br>the hands which fall in the braiding,<br>trailing hair in each stage of its unbraiding.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> 6.<br>Love, how the hours accumulate. Uncountable.<br>The trees grow tall, some people walk away<br>and diminish forever.<br>The damp pewter days slip around without warning<br>and we cross over one year and one year.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Li-Young+Lee">Li-Young Lee</a><div class=q>
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We two sit on our bed, you
between my legs, your back to me, your head
slightly bowed, that I may brush and braid
your hair. My father
did this for my mother,
just as I do for you. One hand
holds the hem of you hair, the other
works the brush. ..."></div>
</div>
</div>