(for Dickie)

Every time I do this in
the backyard, when I get
to the back of your head,

the strands gleaming like crystal
filaments in afternoon light
leaking through browning

sycamore leaves, I admire
the circumference of your
scalp—a perfect half circle,

actually—as if someone drew
a smile in the center where
so many follicles attach.

You often say you don’t
have many hairs left, but
you do back here—I run

the comb through them,
snip the ends to tidy them
up, love watching the silvery

scissors wink in the sunlight,
doing their magic of turning
back time, shaving years

off your countenance,
remaking you, as a haircut
should every time,

fresh and bright.