The First Time I Brush Your Hair

The first time I brush your hair,
you lean into my hand,
unthinking as a cat beneath a familiar touch.

The brush catches where your day has gathered itself:
the wind from the walk home,
the knot from twisting your strands around a pen while thinking about work,
and the place behind your ear where your perfume lingers longest.

You sit between my knees on the floor,
trusting me with the parts of yourself you cannot see,
and I learn the geography of you in reverse.
I trace the place where you always part it,
as faithfully as returning to the same page
of a favourite book.

The strands collect between my fingers.
as the traffic outside passes.
The world continues with its usual noise.
But in this room, I draw the brush
from tip to root, root to tip,
and discover that care is sometimes nothing grander
than untangling what your day has left behind.