OUR ELKHORNS Suddenly they were there, tiny plants clinging to a rocky bank at the edge of the bush. Cute pale green shield-shaped plates with a few green leaves hopefully held aloft. I watered them occasionally, wished them well. Then drought bit. We had

OUR ELKHORNS

Suddenly they were there,
tiny plants clinging to
a rocky bank at the edge
of the bush. Cute
pale green shield-shaped plates
with a few green leaves
hopefully held aloft.
I watered them occasionally,
wished them well. Then drought bit.
We had more to worry about
than self-seeded ferns.
They clung to life, most of them
as the sandy soil baked in the sun.

Now, two years later,
seven still survive,
plump and flourishing
in the recent rain.
They seem to live on air…
Four have moulded themselves
around the rock their spore
fell on and germinated,
small or large, cube-shaped or round.
One has piggybacked on a brother fern,
Clinging to its lower edge.
Another has wound itself between
a rock and the root of a nearby tree,
filling the space between,
a perfect adaptation,
like the elegant limbs
of a soaring dancer
caught by a photo.

And the last elkhorn has spread
its shield around a root
that loops complete in air.
There it clings, at ease
as a highwire artist
seated on a lofty trapeze,
gauzy skirt flowing as she
defies gravity.

Yet this small plant is of the earth,
near the earth, clinging tight,
sucking nutrition from the air
and transforming sunlight
into living, breathing
indomitable leaves.