I watch the Spanish moss
On Port Republic Street.
Carolina curtains, hiding me in robes. Gray ghosts, chained corpses, fleeting flora Dancing, swaying, feeling.
Opacity orchestrates the silvery garlands To move as if shadows – seamless and haunted. Night settles into the salt,
December by the sea, Oak’s ornaments. The moss drapes over the limbs,
Around the bookstore across the road, Above my grandmother’s grave,
And into my mind.
Hushing thoughts,
Sketching stories of the South