Where the grass trail runs savanna gold in winter's mood
the trunks quiver as silver ghosts on trees at solid rest,
so tranquil above the blue water veins of Castille Bayou
and the only sound if you stand stone still is quiet breath
measured in time by the distant shrieks of hiding kestrels.
Here the plants are yellowgold pitchers of deadly nectar
that the summer flies are not scaled to fathom but willed
to a slow leeched death as salts dissolve in season's fare.
Here cypress roots wrap to jealousy around liveoak
and never never let go were tight love to drop its leaves
without the thrust of a season to guide the acorn's arc
in a close embrace that will sometimes clush the skies.
Left on the table cut glass is an emerald found apart,
scattered to crown the picnic leaf in aptly lying art.