Watching the enthusiastic lady
ferns spread their wings like
green swans against the fence,

I am aware that, with their
seasonal emergence that I do
nothing to prompt,

they have swallowed the rose
bush that lives beneath them,
I trust that they are sheltering

it, rather than killing it. Every
fall, when the ferns die and I
cut their brown stalks

to the ground, there’s the rose.
I try to remember her
promise:

“I’m under here. I’m fine.
Patience, dear one.
You’ll see me again.”