by Hiram Larew

All this time I’ve known somehow
That ferns meant more to me
Than names ever could.
They’ve meant more than crows,
More than faith,
More than pies will ever.
Ferns with roots and me with eyes –
They took me without even trying to.
They made me by furling.
I could start and end with them,
And I’ll leave nearly everything else behind
So long as ferns look like ferns do when it rains

All these years
I’ve almost felt alongside them –
Not itchy or polished or pushed or on corners,
But far back whispered and at last.
So, I can say for sure
That whatever else I become or do,
I’ll always look from the side first
And sway.