& ferns can’t be harvested yet the meaning extends beyond

Written by Cailey Tin, one of our poetry writers, and edited by Shraddha, one of our editors!

& today, as I inhaled a spectrum of colors midmorning, 

my sight was already lost, but the scent, oh, the scent, 

it was violet, just like in the spectrum… I believed it 

might be my final breath. In that very moment, I resented 

my blindness, for by my bedside stood a window with 

a fog so sheer, I knew I could see through it, yet when all 

was right, everything gleamed with vitality, and petunias 

meant little when the entire world could be held in my hands… 

I yearn to mend less, to live beyond walls, to lift the fog 

I never ventured into. In films, they indicate the characters in 

a dream, & the experience is not real. I wished for everything to be 

real, tangible, a concrete testament to my life, but now all that I brush are 

curtains, parted only once my purpose slipped away. 

I stretch my fingers and recall the words of a teacher, 

"Ferns unfurl in their own time; don't harvest regrets too soon..." 

I wanted to argue, but before I could speak, she added, 

"It's the imperfection that gives it meaning, or else it's just 

another tired saying." Now, I nod in agreement, 

not because ferns don't flower, but because, apart from that, 

she couldn't have said it any better.

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This piece was written by one of our poetry columnists, Cailey. Reach 'em at @cailey.tarriane on Instagram!

This piece was edited by one of our editors, Shraddha. Reach 'em at @shraddhagulati_ on Instagram!

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