For days I have drawn fern - shaped lines in the absence of words. Criss - cross stalk and petals made me believe words were to attain from leafy cartoons. Ferns dipped in gloam green stains and titled 'Fern du Lac', dotted. I buried them in the back garden, below the brown - veined plum tree, for they neither proffessed nor proved anything. One would pass clay clear mornings, mist lit noons, afternoons of pink flush, moth buzzing nights and start again. I passed and paled in between, with one thought beating in mind: my dreams rest in fern, moss and lichen. What was its spring, soil and root? How did it own, mingle, obscure, confuse, diffuse and use me? It kept silence, and silence reinforced dreams and gave form. When in possession of form, I reached for meaning and wouldn't break.