The fern inkwell

On the stories in the forest, waiting to be told

Fern,
rising from the forest floor,
stretching up like a bridal crown,
reaching newly green leaves
to lap the sunrays
and uncurl its fiddleheads
into full splendour.

I pick a feathery frond,
a quill from the fern inkwell,
and write the forest aglow
with chlorophyll,
rustling leaves as my notebook.

Aspen seeds swirling around me,
wrapped in down,
too light to fall,
too heavy to rise,
lingering in the air
like dust blown from a forgotten box in the attic
as I lift its imaginary lid.

Diaries from times gone by,
falling open in my mind,
revealing the treasures
of a teenage girl –
feathers, sweet wrappers,
pressed flowers,
a sigh.

Page after page,
words and worlds
of love and wonder,
big and small,
sweet and sour.
One filled with different versions of capital Es
to find the prettiest one.
Pages that bore me through my teens
as a girl who walked her own path.

Drops on my shoulders,
silver beads from the sky,
the smell of spring rain.
I put the box back
on its shelf in my memory,
the borrowed fern back in its inkwell.
A firebug has landed
on the fern tip,
shining like a ruby,
two black eyes
quietly watching me
from its shield.

A stick moves underneath my feet
as I rise from my mossy throne,
rattling the leaves.
Nothing is ever still,
nothing ever silent in the forest.
Yet, this is the place I go
to find peace and calm,
to soften my mind,
to write the beating
of my heart.

Smiling,
I walk back home,
wondering
what the fern will write
when I'm gone.