Acupuncture

The lady’s hair, Jeen-Shang recalls,
was a snow-white ball,
a dandelion gone to seed.
Her worry, though, was her memory,
so she turned to an ancient cure:
acupuncture at BeiHuai, the center of energy.

His tale doesn’t tell how her memory fared,
but at that point on the top of her head
five glossy black strands from her childhood cascade
sprouted once more like a fountain of youth.

I wonder what it might do for me,
but Jeen-Shang grins at my gleaming pink pate,
doubts that China has enough needles.

So I wear my broad-brimmed substitute for hair
as I potter on the slope of my vertical yard,
pluck dandelions, vines and foreign grass
from the mostly myrtled slope — sprouting in the middle,
five purple-headed bristle-armed thistles
bow stiffly to the wind. I’d pull them but,
nestled in their spikey bosom is a hornet nest
and hornets know acupuncture, too.

Someday, maybe, when I’m feeling old,
I’ll yank out the thistles, fling the hat,
bow my head, and see what happens.