In the gloaming,
ghosts skeptical of new blood watch in silent judgment
but leave me alone.
I wander in circles squared and linger beneath live oaks;
pressing hands to absorb their magic, ear to trunk listening to tales of liquid and sails,
past lives breathing through branches.
This Tillandsia town;
the humid air forever tangling its secrets
in long cascades of curls.
I ask to gather such fodder and light a friendly fire to smoke out the prisoner inside,
forever tilling the soil of soul, and offer a drink from fortune fountain’s lip
to water what is parched and ready to bloom.