She clings to her rules

As tightly as she ties her bun

No piece out of place,

Polished and proper.

 

For her there is only one;

One way to answer

One way to think

One way to question

One way to feel.

 

Yet like the bun

Sitting stout at the nape of her neck

There is more than one method

To achieve a same goal.

 

One pinches her locks

Another twists and curls

My mother lovingly wraps each strand -

And they all make buns.

 

Be your fingers shaking or nimble

Stumbling or fast

Every way forms that shape

We all make buns.

 

For there are countless ways;

To answer

To think

To question

To feel

 

Because just as hair is shaped

Opinions are, too.

 

While strategies may differ

As well as results

Every bun is worth having

Sitting beautiful, real.