Leaving Some For The Future

It always seemed magical,

When into the forest we would go,

We’d scout the darkened hollers,

Where we knew the plant would grow.

In the deepest darkest sections,

Out on the northern slopes,

We would begin our searching,

And twas here we’d feed our hopes.

We’d search for Seng Pointer,

Also known as Rattlesnake Fern,

The long central leaf’s an arrow,

Pointing the direction we should turn.

Then we’d look uphill in search of benches,

Towards the biggest tallest trees,

In their limbs the rising birds,

Took refuge from the breeze.

With luck they carried the red berries,

On which they had dined,

The seeds would fall beneath those trees,

After having been scarified.

Perhaps they would have sprouted,

There in the deepening shade,

To form the forking man shaped root,

In the cool and lonesome glade.

Our eyes would scan the greenery,

Covering the ground,

Virginia Creeper, Poison Ivy,

In abundance they were found.

Our mind would feel the tingle,

Which anticipation brings,

Our step would become lively,

As if we tread on springs.

A funny feeling would come over us,

A feeling that IT’s near,

As if the plant would call to us,

In words only we could hear.

And then beneath an ancient walnut,

Around the gnarled wizened roots,

I see the first golden leaves, 

On the straight and golden shoot.

Five leaves in each cluster,

Grouped together on four prongs,

So stately and proud it’s growing,

Exactly where it belongs.

I know this plant’s an old one,

One rarely found these days,

With perhaps the man shaped root,

For which the most is paid.

I think to myself of scarcity,

Ecology and such,

I think of the fun in hunting seng,

That I have loved so much.

I think of all the berries,

This plant has given to the soil,

And it seems a shame to dig this one,

It seem something would be lost and spoiled.

I shake my head at my silliness,

And curse myself a fool,

I break off the telltale golden top,

And bury it with my ‘senging tool.

To protect the root from others,

Less sentimental perhaps, than I,

I know there will be at least one more crop of berries,

From this aged plant by and by.