mom’s fern
grows in the bright sunlight
of a white wicker basket
how it must miss
the fog and green friends
the gloom of the forest floor
as she bends her back
and crouches
to seek shade
and some afternoons
imagines gray light
on her face
through the window
of a castle of trees
but it’s usually
just a tired cloud
pulling into a rest stop
along the freeway
that never ends