Spanish Moss

The Spanish moss still hangs
from the old cypress trees;
a forgotten friend draped
across arms of the forest.

From the old cypress trees
I climbed barefoot and boyish,
I beheld and ruled my kingdom
until evening fogs rolled in.

A forgotten friend draped
in the imaginative finery
of a king my mirror shows
as I remember Louisiana.

Across arms of the forest
I once spread like fire and fear.
Now I sit with memories
of Spanish moss and you.