By mail came ferns in snarled brown
nests of hairy roots like coarse
silk spun from faerie looms, crowned
by withered elf-knot fronds – divorced
ghosts from summer’s green.
They smelled of rainy loam,
dark perfume of mushroom dreams,
rotting leaf and cold, shade-pregnant stone.
Each wore, like sleeping centipedes,
a secret succulence of curled
volutes, tight-fisted greenish beads
promised to the equinoctial world.
Cradled by earth, the primal cycad blooms
phoenix-like in blaze of jade-fire plumes.