Witness

Once I saw my Masurian grandmother’s hair
fall in pale amber waves
over her left shoulder like a spell.

She was half-facing the window, perched
on the armchair’s edge, head inclined
to the side, in swift ritual.

She wove three strands into a tress
from the nape to below the waist
as if wringing her hands.

Her rosary-deft fingers
didn’t falter. For a moment
her lioness braid swung loose.

Then she coiled it into a bun,
fastened with pins she pulled
one by one from her pressed-firm lips.

The tuft spun and danced,
was tucked in last,
lay unobserved all day.