I am thirty and visiting my dad
who is growing ferns in his garage.
He points to each one and tells me its name:
Hen and chick. Umbrella. Kidney—

Why are they shaped like that?
To keep the water in.

We drive to the forest near the deer farm
to look for mushrooms
among the leaf litter—

What’s that one?
Wood ear. Orange pore. Earthstar.

Under the canopy I grow into the thought
that my dad knows more now than he did
when I was four, but still not everything—

Why is that mushroom blue?
So the fairies can find their way home.

How much time will I waste
pretending the learning will go on
forever—

How long does the pūriri moth live?
Only
a few days.

Of course, I too know more now
than I knew when I was four,
but there is still so much that is strange—

What’s that sound?
It’s the deer
howling.

Don’t think about the last thing
he will say to me.
Look at the tiny flowers and ask—

What are they?
Epiphytes. That means
they need another plant to grow.