The Fern Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The fern sways gently when the breezes blow
Like guitar strings rippled by fingertips,
Like Indian maidens bending slender hips,
When raindrops down-drop warm and water-slow.

Then, ferns dance healing, elfin, all aglow,
In cemeteries, they shade the weary dead,
Like fans that waft above each grassy bed,
Over the dreaming bones that sleep below

Ferns are enchanted, scroll an elegy
Where shadows linger, luscious, deep and cool
Where emerald beetles split backed, bask or creep
And midges dart where sun's a yellow pool,
And drowsyday nods down in a snatched sleep.