May 3: Fern heads

Tightly curled fern--

fuzzy fist punching the spring sky,

beating it blue.

August 4: Haze

A soft haze clung faintly to the landscape as I left work this humid evening, muting the edges of trees and lawns. The overgrown field of milkweed, goldenrod, Queen Anne's lace, fern, and timothy surrounding our office lightly perfumed the air with the scent of hay. Besides the background whirr of crickets, several goldfinches chirped merrily as they dipped over the tall grass. The moment was dream-like, made even more so by that dazed feeling one sometimes has at the end of a long day of work in a hot office: a high summer's afternoon dream.

Hazy, drowsy field.
I could curl up and sleep here
amid these soft ferns.

April 13: Fiddlehead

Fiddleheads are just starting to burst through the earth into daylight. On a lunchtime stroll around my office today in hopes of absorbing energy from the sun like a plant, I noticed several fuzzy brown fern knobs poking an inch or two above the lawn:

Little fern embryos slowly unfurling, opening themselves to air and light for another season. They look like small animals curled up for a nap. I'm remembering this patch contains interrupted ferns--a fern with big fronds whose green leaflets are "interrupted" by sections of brown, spore-producing leaflets. Interrupted fern fiddleheads are not edible, and in fact would probably make you ill even if you didn't mind their bitter taste. So these critters are safe from this fernavore, at least. 

Here in Maine most fiddleheads on the menu are baby ostrich ferns, and I'm anticipating their appearance in our local markets any day now. My husband steams them, then mixes them with spaghetti pasta and a little butter and parmesan to make a perfect, light, springtime meal. 

Unfurling fern fists

punching their way into light.

Our hearts, too, open.