Grandmother’s Maidenhair Ferns

 

 

Wet, evergreen hair hanging above the mossy rocks

and leaning on the muddy wall, like a fountain

that rolls down the green hills of unknown countries,

I remember, you were my grandmother’s care.

 

Your wet, ever green hair still eerily exudes

those swords of golden fire, burning brighter

than the sun on a midsummer day, despite

the absence of the one who loved you most.

 

I used to and still imagine grandmother, with you,

feisty maidenhair ferns sitting on her head.

Gosh! Grandmother in such modern jeans,

with green hair spread à la Shakira!

 

Be it with her amazingly immortal guitar,

with green hair “Pee-ka-booing” like a new rockstar,

or in a cool restaurant with cascading hair,

be it in a top or solemn dress with her hair flattened

 

like an obedient girl, grandmother had a beauty

that belonged only to the wild wind.

The imaginary combo of you two is a comedy

yet to be surpassed by any other memory.

 

There’s a romantic whisper in your chemistry too.

At least, I can sometimes giggle after grandmother’s

death due to you wet, evergreen maidenhair ferns.

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