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Ferns in their time, tricolored three: The green fern growing by the tree, The black fern hardened in the vein Of coal beneath the bulldozed plain, The white fern silvered in the frost Upon the window pane embossed. White is the fern that soon will pass, Etching of crystal on the window glass, Only the faery forest of a dream Melting in sunlight and the kettle’s steam, Rune of the future earthlings cannot know, The pale phantasmagoria of the snow. “Forget the past.” Old proverbs are profound. Deep in the ribs and canyons underground Where, in the swamps, the Brontasaurus cried, Where in the tropic fenlands fern brakes died, Fell with the rotting palm trees, petrified, Layer on layer, oceans rose and fell; Layer on layer, as the “high-walls” tell; The rivers cutting; mountains lift and roll, Mountain on mountain, pressing down the coal. Black is the fern that hardens in the soul. Ferns of the earth—there is but one: The green fern growing in the sun, Fronding the woodland’s light and shade, Tracing the stone wall and the glade, Edging the beauty of the world, Its sturdy fiddleheads uncurled 18 To play the wood wind’s April rhyme, The
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: May 28, 2019
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