In winter I watch my ferns, small spent volcanoes as somber as November in their row along the fence; and think of April when green centers burst the tight brown circles in their dark craters;

and then of May when their fists of fronds slowly uncurl themselves into palms and fingers;

and at last of June when in their full dimensions, they are at ease in the shade with their memories of dinosaurs.

Share this story:

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.