A single, patient line, as you’d expect from her,
She lets the fern be a gesture, a wearable thing.
Here, the fern is both feminine and unconscious—
a sleep-dancer, already mythic.

It grows where names forget themselves,
where leaf-light slants through time like old glass.
No bloom, no boast. Only fractal unfurling—
a logic older than bees.

Victorians made reliquaries,
pressing silence between sheets of leaded air.
And still it curls,
still listens,
still does not answer
the bell of our days.

What hour is it in the understory?
What calendar keeps a dream in green?