Sonnet VIII: Gwynne's Hair

Gwynne always says her brown curls are a mess
In sunlight—Ring of gold, celestial sprawl
The upkeep looms, a constant source of stress
In childhood photos—Fuzzy cotton ball
She trims her bangs herself, haircuts are rare
In wind—Held in place by a shielding hand
She won’t sleep on it wet, shuns open air
In morning—Kept up by a loose hair band
Neatness never crossed my mind, I confess
Naive witness to hair maintenance routines
As she sets aside each detangled tress
I think how glad I am, how much it means
That those hands, which take such care to refine
Choose to entangle deft fingers with mine