I planted a tree in my hair
And the little people moved in
Living in their milk carton house
And tangled spirals for a view.
They’d braid my hair on the sly
And have barbecue
Barbecue for lunch, barbecue for meetings, barbecue for funerals, barbecue for dresses,
And I thought they had it in for me, I thought they had a thing,
Out to get me, I was sure
Until I heard a whisper of something, something, one fine morning, Saturday
“Imagine that there’s nothing holding you down, and you’re flying free, into the cinnamon sky, your brain’s unmuddled, your heart’s untwisted. You hold your breath , cuz you can breathe freely now; there’s just you & the cinnanmon sky and what lays past it. You could jump, you could step onto a cinnamon bit, and another and another, weaving your way through the layered fluffs of cinnamon bits that float, in circles through the air and spin around long lines of springy keratin hair, straight into the big yellow, you could walk, balancing, from one piece to another, until you reach the open sky (The Gloamglozer, by Paul Stewart and Chris Riddell).
You could meet tangy springs of smell ( like corn smells and hair smells) there; feel them change you forever in some insignificant little ways;
Springs of the tortilla flower, vapors of yesterdays,
gusts of dangerous peppermint barbecued banana,and lots of yellow rain,
Yellow, yellow rain