A forest of ferns stretches deep into the woods
past the birches with their white, papery bark, and the others,
familiar, yet not the same. It’s the ferns that draw my attention
with their height and their strong, straight fronds,
so different from the soft, lacy ones that cover the hill
to the south of my home, yet dancing into the forest
in the same way. And the forest is different, too, the trees
here cousins to those outside my door and growing
on flat land, not climbing the slope of a hill. It ‘s as if
the earth suddenly changed clothes just to delight
in the differences and to celebrate the theme.