the fronds tend to occupy angles that are sort of Lovecraftian

All along her edges, just where she turned to another state. Tidepools full of slow blinks and bubbles and little waving fronds. The self, but more, like a sponge. But thirsty.

every whiff of damp leaf, every autumn-rusted frond of fern in the St. Petersburg countryside

black palm fronds against indigo dusk

frondy purple tassels