Western Sword Ferns

by Michael Sandler

It pierces me
to hear you quite dislike them. I like them
for their dark grace and anyhow they’ll wave
in the wind in the background to other plants,
the unobtrusiveness of an opera chorus.
Others will take center stage, wispy tenors
of Liriope grass, fiery Nandina
and a cool Hosta bass—I envisioned
the garden as harmonious surprise,
or at least one you’d in the end get used to.

We almost duel,
not touches we desire—can’t old love
mellow even at the edges? Fiddleheads
unsheathe their fronds, baring new mysteries
while I dam up, bewildered by your stance—
though I try to see your point, how fluent ferns
resemble weeds, boding to overrun
more fragile natures, showering their spores
like a midsummer cloudburst, like the rice tossed
when once we ran toward this sharp intimacy.