Fern Gully

Under the shade of the trees, moist droplets fall through spider webs.
Ferns rise.
Along the far end of my pond, they wait in the shade of elms and oaks.
Midsummer night.
The gully grows in the drip dark rain, untouched by hands and paws.
Treasured grove.
Silent stalks absorbing the rains for an eternity.
A planted forest unperturbed by dark patches. 
Through the cleared path, men and women walk.
They seek the forest flower of the fern in the night.
They dance and kiss and sing and pour pond water in dirt.
The water seeps into soft mushy ground,
a land of twigs and sticks and rocks.
More ferns grow, where they play and trod and drip seeds.
The gully will not be cut by mowers, like me.
My trimmings do not touch their moist dark land.
Somewhere the magic stalk awaits by the pond to flower,
always invisible, but real enough tonight for me in midsummer dusk.