Spanish moss hangs from the boughs of live oaks, quiet poets lost in a sweet nostalgia that transcends all but a semblance of thought. A momentary gust stirs their sacred pen to paper, and they whisper soft and archaic musings, swaying with the eternal timelessness of their peaceful being.

Their sparse words are quick to fade, lost within the comings and goings of a World that moves as if to forget, making room only for what is yet to come, always so inexplicably fond of the future.

But a tree lives to remember. A tree understands that someday, despite all the overtures of a hurried world, the future will be no more substantial than another poetic whisper fading with a calming wind - measured in a length of Spanish moss, or in the distance between each intermittent circle of growth tucked safe within its trunk.

I awoke to a bright and cheerful Saturday morn, perfect for a casual stroll for a taste of Haymarket Square where Italian vendors hustled meats and produce from open crates and little stalls. After sampling fresh fruits and char-grilled sausages, I moved on, crossed the Common, and turned north onto Charles Street. I was content with window-wishing for exquisite things in a dozen high-end curio and antique shops when I came upon a fusty used book store- things I could afford.

The place was a potpourri of print, shelves crammed with books filled every nook and cranny. I leisurely browsed looking for nothing in particular when suddenly, I was infused with an odd sensation- as if some unseen, but gentle force guided me to a certain bookcase. I didn't resist, and without hesitation or distraction, I went straight toward it and stopped. There, just above my head about mid-shelf, I spotted a two-volume set: Isis Unveiled.

The distinguished, silver-haired gentleman in the fourth row was edgy and kept changing his position in his wooden folding chair. He'd never had the occasion for attending an auction at Harriford before and simply couldn't understand the reasoning behind the spine torturing, unpadded chairs they used. Certainly, they could afford better seating. The auction houses of Sotheby and Christie both had fine, upholstered chairs, carpeted floors and, in general, a far more genteel atmosphere. This was more like he'd expect to find in an old barn on some back country road back home rather than in London.

Energy bristled about him as he kept crossing one leg and then the other trying to find a comfortable position. Now, with perhaps a half hour until the auction officially started, the waiting was testing his patience to the extreme and, normally, he was a very patient fellow. But not today. And yet, he felt as if he'd been waiting for over forty years for something, some clue. So another few more minutes shouldn't really matter. Yet they did. Every moment now seemed an eternity. He was so close.

What Valetine means to me
reading your newsletter,
love, romance,
by embe.

When I was young and gay
I tried to bed a maiden
saying I love her;
but she laughed
with lying eyes
confusing me.

Don't be silly
you're only a boy
trying to be a man,
holding your red rose
wishing to be with me
for sweet Valentine kisses.

Ashamed I turned and cried
not knowing how to answer
trying to say I'm sorry;
never to bother you
in my verses cold
my writing old.

Waiting now
another year away
to be with a new lady;
she's the one to love me
the boy trying to be a man
with sweet Valentine kisses.