we were floridians

Do you remember the way the spanish moss hung

stubbornly groundward in the wind? Drooping,

gravity-bound, beyond the gnarled arms of

great brown oaks? Spanish moss that could have been

the gunk dripping from swamp monster elbows,

maybe careening every minute or so (when he

lifts a hand to scratch his nose). And when

their stubborn threads did move, they moved

together, like every elbow of every violinist

at the crescendo. Like mermaid hair

waving in a slipstream, gray-green under

filtered ocean light, gray-green like the vague

underwater memories of land colors. Do

you remember that I dared you to wear

it on your head, so you could be the monster from

the swamp? So you could be the mermaid,

underwater? And it doesn't matter if it's

another thunderstorm at four, when I remember

the way you smiled from behind those

silly curly tendrils, when I remember that

you heaped them into the basket of your bicycle

and rode around all day like you were a courier

delivering a giant bowl of pesto fusilli col buco...

My heart sings like every violin at the crescendo.