Lie with me here, where fern is Queen,

On nature’s carpet of scattered past.

As gossiping creek leaks mist-borne chill,

And nourishes through forest veins.


Hidden as children. Cocooned beneath,

The ancient Guardians of the South.

Overlapping fingers of filigree fronds,

Paint changing masks on shadowed skin.


Lie with me here. As unseen choir,

On bud-burst twig and hollow trunk,

Chirrups in timbres of delight,

To serenade the injured soul.


Surrender the clock. Still. Paused.

Drink the chill-kiss sigh of air,

Ageless scent of forgotten truths,

Of stories pleading to be heard.


Lie with me here, midst verdant bliss,

Troubles left on velvet rock,

Here, where we are small and rare,

We ask if we might call this home.