Spanish moss hanging low,
Swinging, swaying to and fro,
Dark and damp
Against the moon’s no show.
It’s there you know
Just unseen, black.

I’ll gather the moss,
Place it under your head,
Carry you out to your ocean bed,
Wave goodbye as you float away
On ocean waves, blue.

If I could ease your sleep
Into the deep, I’d do it.
Kiss your lips one last time,
You’re so old and you’re too young,
Your journey’s just begun, red.

But first I’ve got to let you go,
Kiss the lips that have grown so cold,
Push you out to sea
Away, so far away from me.
The moon hangs low.
It’s there you know, gold.

— Ronda Miller lives in Lawrence.