Spell

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.