fiddlehead green

in the yard i see magic. that's a fact. one night i went to bed. the next day i got out of bed. nothing special about that.

but when i looked out the window, there it was.

that almost indescribable shade of green which in maine appears suddenly, after rain and sun and warm air have had a chance to do their thing in the second week of may. we wait so long for a little peep of green, and then one morning there it is.

i am talking about fern green, fiddlehead green. not grass green or chive green. grass and chive green are lovely and all, but fern green, that achingly soft color of new life, is special. it only lasts while the spring growth is in its early stages and soon it, too, will change into darker, dustier shades. because the color is fleeting, it is sweet and rare. if you don't pay attention it will pop into the world and, as with the birth of all living things, quickly grow and be gone.

fern green is the shade of leafing out, like the birches, oaks and forsythia in the yard. i see some moss between the flagstones in the pathways that is light green, too. fern green is crisp celery green, an inside-freshly-cut-avocado green; green mixed with a dab of lemon yellow. delicious.

~fiddlehead air~

a fiddlehead furled, clutching
tightly to protect her embryo
of green leaves uncoiling
pulsing in rhythmic pain
the sweet juice of life
flows up from her roots
a spasm spilling tiny
delicate leaves which erupt on the edge
of the forest floor in a pang.

andante allegretto allegro
between discomfort and peace
listen to the ache of wildness as dozens play
on the wind, a melody born
in golden sun, a cry
in the woodland air
of fiddleheads newly emerged
soft moist tender
an orchestra of green whose harmony
quietly murmurs
a joyous air
for us all.
can you hear?
susurrando 
to the end.