Parched, dry, dusty and dying, it appeared
laying my head on my pillow and drifting into a dream.
My senses are awakened by the scent of moist earth
riding on a cool and gentle breeze through my window.
Familiar sounds, distant but remembered.
Little pelts on my roof top.
Tiny drops of an antidote for the affliction plaguing the land.
They call it drought. Earth is now quenched.
It has rained.
This is a fern I transplanted from the forest behind our house to my garden. The little curls remind me of children so tender and young. Unfolding into the hardy yet fragile beings we all are as adults, not suspecting a well intended gardener would come along and remove us from our comfortable place in the world to grace the entry of what will soon be a spectacular landscape. Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she? ; )
My mother’s garden is so beautiful and vibrant, so I thought it would be interesting to look at it through a colorless prism.