What does Fiddleheads mean to me...

A dear friend of mine read me the following poem over the phone from Seattle, and my heart melted. I have a love for ferns and especially when they are little fiddleheads in the spring. This is how the name of my blog came about. To me the feeling for this blog is new beginnings errupting into something beautiful that last a long time, and continues to repeat the beauty over time. I hope you all enjoy this poem as much as I do. Thanks to my friend in Seattle

FERNS

Almost invisible, but once you look for them

... nearly everywhere

like moss in crevices and drifting thoughts,

ferns are what it must mean

to love without yearning. Protectors

of everything small that needs to disappear,

deer mice and tossed trash, bad brushstrokes in a painting,

theirs is the softest name, the softest touch.

They are social workers

as social workers should be - so full of calm

even those who don't trust them

come into their care. Fiddleheads or not,

the rumour that once a year, on Midsummer's Eve,

ferns blossom with tiny blue flowers

and if a pinch of fern seed falls upon your shoes

you will be less apparent - this rumor

is baseless: ferns have tiny spores

that travel in dew and raindrops,

no more magical

than Henri Rousseau, composing The Peaceable Kingdom,

or adder's tongues, cinnamon, wall rue.

In the world's secret corners,

men wish to vanish, but ferns are what look on,

trembling, holding all light green places.See More

 for brightning my day.