In tropical lands, humidity hangs thick & slow
Upon bark of giants, the fern prefers to grow
As the aerial tenants they demand no soil
Staghorn, a master of light, free from earthly toil.
​The double frond architectures on a single stem
One brown and round, a well-built shielding hem
That builds a bowl to catch the forest’s waste
While velvet horns spread out in starburst haste.
​The shield frond grips, a tight and waxy hand
Whereby it traps the leaf and debris of the land
The digestive bowl processes decay, drinks the rain,
Thus yields private compost on a wooded plane.
​When summer peaks and the spores arrive
They wait for wind to scatter allowing it to live
It serves a living sculpture that the hand can tame
Mounted on wood, it’s framed like a living flame.
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