Deep within the ferny swamp,
a mossy hillside beckons me,
beneath the fireflies that romp
and play about a great Oak tree.
Beneath the Oak, upon a stone,
a figure sits, form cloaked and still,
awaiting my approach, alone,
a statue, grey, upon the hill.
Gnarled knuckles grace the hands
that rise to lift the heavy cloak,
revealed, the spirit of the sands,
the Lady of the great Live Oak.
Tangled hair of spanish moss,
and eyes a deep palmetto green,
the scars of years lie mapped across
the softest skin I’ve ever seen.
She meets my gaze with patient eyes,
her smile as soft as summers hum,
her voice, so deep and old and wise,
whispers “Child, I’m glad you’ve come.”