Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Fern

I walked in the night under artificial light
Amongst high pine branches trying to escape encapsulation
my hands held tight
around books and folders and pieces of bureaucratic mess
sticky bits of nothingness

And looking down I saw a fern, an ordinary thing
belonging to itself unlike the other, imported weeds
and garbage bags
and candy wrappings
and student needs

The fern took over my line of sight
as I searched for others on the path to guide my way
thinking of quiet Maine mornings
soft fern tickling bug bitten ankles
when we would play in between shafts of natural light
and grow, and pray.

And I hope when my own days are short
my certain evening looming straight ahead
I hope my path is not bathed in fluorescent puddles

Rather moonlight, or candleflame, or lamplight
or firefly.

9 comments:

  1. This made me sigh in places. I could feel the fern, see the litter, and hoped that my ending comes in the soft light and not the glare.

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  2. I love this poem. I have an obsession with ferns. Such beautiful plants from my past.

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  3. "The Fern" is the illumination, I can see that...

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  4. Enjoyed that little moment of escape.

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  5. It makes me think about less complicated times and peace. And I want that.

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  6. Lovely.
    I especially like the line about hoping your path is not bathed in fluorescent puddles.

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  7. Beautiful! I love the same line as Catherine.

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