#mulder coded

Like curled-up first tendrils of a fern You are drawn back, You contract away. The tenderest, the lightest touch, Would bruise that green. The mold it sprang from Was dark under dark trees, Rich with old leaf-growth. I do not ask hid life of woodland rot Quickly to be transplanted to my doorstep. Stay, my far forest-treasure, Tree-guarded, dusk-loving, In your dusk world. I will wait for your love; watch Till those clenched fists undo, Till they stretch our their green fronds, Widen and point every way in the sun, Casting their lacy triangles of shadow In full-spread foliage. I will wait for that time: For the fern of love to unfold in its own way. More to me than any hardihood of root, Or perfumed flower, Is your slow, intricate, Cool, shy leaf.