She undoes

She undoes her hair,
	unbraiding to the wind
		the bright - it's thin now,
	falling to the comb, November,
cold in coming - bright as leaves
		her hair.
The bone pins bristle;
		she is wrists
	and elbows.
		Knees.
Shy as dryad (virginal),
	the old girl's wild,
	    the dark
		and cloudrush
			of the sky
	her mind, her nightlong riding
			boneward.
		Bloodrags sail.
			(The moon
	Wanes.)

		"Done."
			"Undone."
				"And all to do,"
	her sisters cry.
		Her selves.  Unselving
			in the dark, the midwood.

Ah, they all go bare
	and they live by the air,
		sings Mally.
In and out her hands, the long swift
	stiffened hands unbraiding
		bear the stars, the seven
			Pleiades her ring.
	Orion is her comb.
The braid's undone.
	She shakes it, falling
		lightloose bright about her,
	to her knees, as long
		as to her feet.  She stands
			knee deep in dreams.
Unspelled, they scatter.
	A
		and
			O,
		they whirl away.
			No more.
		No matter.
Let them rake at her,
	cries Sibyl with her hands.
And nightlong
	winterlong her owl-
		winged hair's
			unbound.
She will not do it up.


						- Greer Gilman