My hair is drying wild in the sun.
I run a hand through it

to catch the loose strands
and one comes away, coiled on my finger. 
It shines silver-white. 

Of all the things I could hate about this body–

the creeping network of lines that crease my eyes,
the slow, rounding expansion of my hips,
the new barely-yielding pain in my shoulder–
This is not one of them. 

I lay the curl on my towel

and it is radiant
like mithril
strong, shining, precious, rare. 
I have forged it from my body
and it is beautiful.
I watch it catch light
and wish I could wear it like armor.