Now, as the gardens of the land,
snow-freed, wake to a new command,
I think of an ancient promise kept
as the great fern forests, when they slept,
arose to an unforeseen renewal
as coal: the source of light and fuel.
I think how firelight that burned
in shifting patterns then returned
some to what they once were: giant ferns.
And I think, as sometimes I may pass
my shadowy image in the glass,
a veiled mist fleetingly withdraws
and I see without reason, without cause,
changes in the one I am, the one I was.