Colored glass stuck on the bare branches–
we had them in the south when I was a kid.
Amber, green and blue protected the poor,
black and white.
Here, in the Quarter, they are charming,
ornamental, though it isn’t clear if they mean
what they once meant: evil spirits trapped
before they reached the well
and front porch. I see them behind
garden walls, the exposed brick the rich
pay extra for. In the courtyards, they chatter,
laugh, drink mimosas from
bottomless pitchers….
We believed in bottle trees, thought it special
to stick colored glass on the high branches
The night wind tinkled them
like glass bells….
That south is gone, the well and front porch,
the Creoles too with their well-dressed slaves
and sugar cane money.
Who can say if evil spirits are trapped or not?
The same moon still shines above
the slate rooftops, dormer windows,
down ancient empty streets.

William Miller‘s eighth collection of poetry, the Crow Flew Between Us, was pubished by Kelsay Books in 2019. Miller’s poems have appeared in The Penn Review, The Southern Review, Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner and West Branch. He lives and write in the French Quarter of New Orleans.