Single hair left in my bed

Remind me how the rain is shed;

When in old age, do cloudy tufts

Surrender from the skyey head? 

"No, no; the drops like rice are stuck

Upright into the paddies' muck

And being pulled from one hillbrow

Are in another gardenbed tucked." 

I disagree; when clouds are blown,

They hold their weight as seeds unsown.

It's when we let them lie with us,

The clouds, the locks of love are grown.