In the Shade of the Tree Ferns

No path here.
Just damp earth,
moss on stone,
and the slow, deliberate hush
of growing things.

Tree ferns arc overhead,
fronds wide as arms,
filtering light
into something sacred.

I brought my sons here,
when their legs were small
and full of mud.
They squatted in the black soil,
drew patterns with sticks,
found joy
in a single wriggling earthworm.

The ferns, the filtered light—
none of it mattered.
Only dirt,
and the way it stuck
to their knees,
their laughter,
my heart.

Now I pass alone.
The moss is thicker.
Their prints long gone.
But I see them—
the shape they made
in that moment,
still held
in the hush beneath the fronds.

And I smile,
because some things—
mud,
love,
the wonder of being their dad—
cling forever.

Ryan Stone

This one is from my new poetry collection – Love, and Other Ordinary Miracles – soon to be released on Amazon.