Pteridomania, or, Ferns as Keepers of Pre-Clock Time
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?
14 thoughts on "Pteridomania, or, Ferns as Keepers of Pre-Clock Time"
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I love this poem it hurts my heart in such a good way.
Wow !
From title through opening line
through….
“already mythic”
and
“And still it curls,
still listens,
still does not answer
the bell of our days.”
…to the question at the end.
Thank you for writing this.
thank you
This is beautiful! I visualized different snapshots of ferns as I read through.
“No bloom, no boast. Only fractal unfurling” is LOVELY.
thank you
This is masterful from the title until the last question!
thank you
Well done. Soulful. The title promises much and the poem delivers.
thank you
Absolutely wonderful, one that will stay with me for a very long time.
thank you
A fragile beauty to the poem written with a light touch and a weighted message. “She lets the fern be a gesture, a wearable thing.” – love!!
thank you
Love “the bell of our days.”
thank you