On Examining The Fern

I have a small fern branch on my desk. It used to be on someone’s front lawn, hanging over the sidewalk and passersby needed to brush it out of the way. No more.

It’s a delicate little thing, made up of a dozen or so hairs that come out of what appear to be pods, dozens of which are on each slim little branch of which there might be two or three dozen on a major branch. These, in turn, might be part of maybe another dozen branches which make up one part of the fern.

It curls, starting about two inches up from the major branch’s starting-point. As it gets closer to the end, the curling intensifies until it reaches 180 degrees; now it starts winding up like a spring. If you try to pull it apart, this tender and delicate little flower turns out to have quite a bit of strength: all those little branches work together rather well.

It’s hardy, as well. Flowers come and go, especially during this snowy season, but the slight, airy, fern hangs in there. The snow which is coming will take down power lines, scatter tree branches, lock car wheels – but the little fern will still be there days after the winds have subsided and when the snow finally melts.

I don’t know much about these little things. From what I see on a ferns website, their reproduction is quite unlike what I’ve seen on farms (you know, horses and cows, sheep and pigs). Pollen from another flower makes its way over, or even pollen from one part makes a move on another part, as in, “Go **** yourself.”