NOTE TO THE FERN DRESSED IN DUSK

say anything tender moonbeam—
don’t just sit there! I need
a gentle wind; a quaint push;
a pocket-sized longing; any good
word dipped in honey. all afternoon
the stale sky ignites and everything
is overbaked & I may not
want silence but a calamity
could never be an open palm.
is there any such voice that
speaks without breaking any
name that it recites; that can
paint in a vibrant hue without
dipping the brush in its own
darkness; something glimmering
yet, honest like the first raindrop
on a barren field—oh, the field,
with a new sun in its pocket
a warm nest in its branch
to the whispering fern
dressed in dusk—buried
in the shade of an oak tree—
thank you for whispering

William Bortz (he/him) is a flawed husband, poet, and editor from Des Moines, IA. He has a book coming out next year and enjoys a good bouquet of eucalyptus. T: @william_bortz

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