Fiddleheads

Can you see them a split second before the metaphor takes hold, and your mind furls into a shape to meet the shape it sees? Soon they’ll slip this brief semblance, unfurl into others. What if metaphor is not an abstraction but an aspect of what they are, essential to them as the color green? In my garden now, fiddles and young ferns in brief accord, infinite lines in a cosmic geometry crossing in the plane of poetry.