Those with urbane appetites live
in pots on shelves
dependent on the ability of old women
to remember that those tame species need watering.
Fiddler and I may be country bumpkins, but we
know the pleasures of the forest shade,
the cool, moist humus, and
the tickle of the living things that
crawl ab0ut our roots.
We may not live in pots to be
moved around the house
but we are free.
Fiddler Fern
I unfurl, slowly, like spirituality;
I move from within and
bend back, and then out
in praise of the canopy and
the sky above it.
Then I look around and there is
May Apple
with that lovely white
blossom peeking through her skirts.
I may be green, but I
can still blush and smile
and give thanks that
she and I grow
in the same soil--
our roots intertwining with each other
and all of life.
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