The Live Oaks of Florida still weep toward the ground.
Green and mossy and moving in the right direction.
The pointed plants are somewhat Amazonian, but their spear quality was the first thing I noticed.
Now, after 20 years that feel like 60, they point toward an 18-year-old made more out of longing than water.
I picture both of us sitting down to a very quiet tea, and their conversation is, in fact, reverent.
Did it really ever change?
