Foresight

I want to live in a place where the Spanish moss swings, hangs,
as low and as heavy as the humidity.
Fresh fruit,
fragrant,
from trees,
gathered by barefeet, early morning dew covered,
for breakfast.
I want to live in an old sage-painted wood house that smells of mahagony, cinnamon and cloves.
Where the stairs always creek,
and there are candled mason jars lined in the windows,
a beacon of light guiding you home.