FERN OF THE ANCIENT TYPE

Thursday, August 4, 2011.  Curls, curls, all curls.  It waits, like some giant unfolding snake head, malevolent, maybe not.  It sits in this green lushness, patient, older than I can imagine, having existed in this form forever.  Then it unfurls, soft and green, wide.  A dew catcher.  A place of rest for thirsty insects.

ROCKS

Thursday, August 4, 2011.  Offerings at the bottom of the falls, around the pool, mist playing around the rocks tossed to earth by beings unknown or unnamed.  And then there are the rocks placed into the nook on the right.  Who has crawled there, scaled the wall, to place these gifts that mark the presence of the seeker, the penitent or the loyal?  The stones, worn smooth by time and water, sprayed by the shower of the water or the falling rain, nestled in a cranny.