A Filmy Fern

On the dewy mountain, full of fluffy fronds. 

The spores on a filmy fern look like Christmas tree decorations. 

It’s true; the forest adores the fern. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

The water falls down, just to feed back into the plant again, 

With its leaves as thin as paper, as important as the sun. 

Squish, squash, squelch, two generations ago, they disappeared without rhyme or rhythm, now found again, not lost to history books. 

Growing with the security of other plants, they crawl along the ground in search of a new host to dominate. 

It’s true; the forest is a dangerous place.