Overhead,
the tree’s the thing of things—
All around are more,
but this has greener leaves,
somehow filters darker sky.
A humid promise hanging there,
brewed by a full and super moon.
A golden sap, gushing sweet,
pumped to ground inversely
beneath the tree on which I snatch a seat
for long enough to bathe my feet,
to sip the air that rises redolent;
a vapor in, a vapor out,
a lingering caress,
like a plea to sit, to stay,
to drift away.
