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Poem

There is a secret valley, very lush and green
 but hidden somewhere unbeknownst to me.
        I've only been there in my dreams,
      and I've seen a massive live oak tree.

 He whispers in sensual voice to beckon me,
             "Come to me, my love.
        Feel me deep within your heart
           be guided by stars above."

           He calls when ere I sleep.
    He's waiting for me there, I know.
           I feel his arms reach out.
             It's there I have to go.

      When I found the oak I sought,
      on his branches there lay moss,
         hanging like tresses of hair
      weeping as if crying from loss.

       Lamenting picture did they make
           as lovers in fond farewell.
          They were not in goodbye,
     but in each others arms they dwell.

        The oak has drawn me to him
        and this no longer is a dream.
          Spanish moss is what I am,
     things are not always as they seem.

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