Upon the Arms of An Oak

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.