Bill Griffin

Yesterday (February 7, 2023) I discovered a single blossom of hepatica in the woods along Elkin Creek. Two miles of trail, one flower. And so early – I didn’t expect hepatica to bloom until closer to the end of the month, but whether reading the infinitely various book of nature or lines on a page one must be open to surprises.

This poem, “Frond,” started much differently and with a different title. It surprised me. I had been asked by our local trails association to lead a naturalist hike last June. I hoped the little section of Mountains-to-Sea trail near town would offer novelty and wonder to the fifteen women, but the spring ephemerals were past and summer profusion was mostly still in bud. Nevertheless, ferns! We knelt and learned to “frondle,” to touch and turn and learn the secrets of stipe, rachis, sori. We all returned home with a deeper appreciation of the variety of form and lifestyle, right here in our own backyard.

So, also, the poem began as description and documentation, and a little didactic. At what point did mystery seep in? When did the lines softly insist that the language plants use to speak to me is also the way I might need to speak with those I love? My personal motto as a wandering naturalist is Semper plus discere, always more to learn. Evidently, I should also assume that I have yet more to learn about the mystery of love.