NEW ORLEANS MOSS

It started as moss on trees

Now at midnight the old mosser comes along,
Easing clumps of moss from cypress branches.
Wearing the darkness as her cloak.

Once hundreds came and filled baskets.
Rails hung with moss drying in the sun
Like an eerie curtain blowing in the breeze.
Eventually progress and modernization,
Age old opponents stopped the mossers,
Now the cypresses billow with moss,
Saying, "we have secrets you will never know."

Mumbled ageless words and incantations
Over bits of bright cloth and dried plant,
Serpentine fingers sew a voodoo doll.
She wears the darkness as her cloak.