Fern, That Argoverdant Arch-Albatross

Tree ferns tower over my head, 

bark armored by primordial 

plumes like the flightless archaeopteryx.

All shapes a Chinese paper-cutting artist

can imagine, a leaf can also. In the beginning

the leaf was a wing. From per — to lead, pass over,

that which carries a bird in flight — comes fearn,

filix, pteris. Feather plant. Draw any cute

or fantastic or grotesque or baroque

or rococo or art deco or art nouveau shape

and some kind of fern would have found it

the exact fitting template for its flying suit.

It has sewn neat rows of sporangia into 

the webbed seams of leaf-veins. Buttons

are meant to stay stolidly on and hold

folds together, but these small round brown 

boxes reach their entelechy by bursting

to spread their kind wherever wind or water

carries them in flight. Magic dust sprinkled

from rooted wings whose element is not air

but wet, worm-swirling, fertile earth.

For centuries their flourishing had remained

a mystery. Like people once fancied that birds

of paradise had no feet and lived in clouds,

drinking dew and feasting on ethereal nectar,

they made myths about the fabulously invisible 

seed of ferns: it births at dusk a small blue

flower the night before midsummer, ripens

in a blink of eye, and dies; it flies through

eleven pewter plates and lands on the twelfth;

it confers knowledge, treasure, invisibility

on those vigilant enough to elude fairies;

it guards against ill weather and dark magic.

It heals. It kills. The Devil spreads it as chaos.

It attends Christian rituals that celebrate light.

The first gods were trees. The first trees, ferns.

Stand beneath Dryopteris erythrosora or cycadina

Turn over fronds of Cyathea dealbata. That silver

bird, Ponga, has flown from its ocean home

into dark woods. Its underwings’ reflected light

guides me to an opening. There I spread it out,

sew it onto paper barbel by delicate barbel,

write on a small card where and when it hovered

bowering me, who else witnessed the tryst,

transplant my memory of it to a hortus siccus.

LUCIE CHOU is an ecopoet hiking and gardening in mainland China. Read more.

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