Live Oak draped
in Spanish Moss,
wilting with it
as if weeping
in the sweltering sun.
Autumn never comes here,
only peripatetic monsoons
which bring heavy, soggy freshness.
While through the rain, shivering still,
remains this mossy tree in a breeze
(like sultry girls shimmying
on bars late at night).
After the storm’s passing
the sun dies
an inexorable death, leaving a
saturnine penumbra of tropical magic.
Yet, there remains the dance of
this figure swaying to
quiet, secret music-
jape of the lives we live.
boo hoo, nobody noticed this poem.
I am noticing.
There is something highly dramatic about Spanish Moss — perhaps just because I’m a northerner, but it is so distinctively southern, so redolent of that climate and culture, that it always seems a strong statement of some sort. So I like the way you make the moss-draped tree into a character. heavy, soggy freshness sounds contradictory, but I know exactly what you mean — when the rain clears out the air, and everything is fresh yet wet and heavy still because really the water just shifted places.
Did you notice I noticed? 😉
moose- oh dear, forgive me. yes, I noticed. thank you so much for noticing. sorry for my bad. you took some time and I didn’t acknowledge it. (that little comment was a “test” for the comment system, which I inadvertently left up, so I barely noticed that your noticing was about that…or something..)
No worries! Just wanted you to know I do notice, even when I’m sometimes slow about commenting. I reeeeeaaad everything! 🙂
that touched me…i just moved to northern florida – and i understand your poem in ways i never would have 2 months ago. it’s autumn now, it’s so delicate tho. the maples are just beginning to turn and the spanish moss is always looking dramatic – like a shampoo commercial really – in that low afternoon sun. thanks!
Ryan- How nice to find a new comment on an old poem, and a creative poetic comment at that! Thanks for stopping by. I’ll check out your dream blog. Sounds interesting.
David