I wanted to take a forest fern home.
imagined it running over my gardenscape looking
rugged against the gentle foliage. The green so dark.
the flowers would frown till their petals shrivel.
and the fern ? ripped
from its brown flesh. its roots parched without the blood
only the woodlands can feed. the songs they chorused to which
the ferns extended their bristles. scratching the wind gently, marking
the soft skin. I pause.
It would grow but not the way it was meant to be. will its touch on us
be the same ?
I looked at it. touched one edge. felt the pulse of the rivers breathing under
my finger. a rise and fall of an infant. deeply sleeping dreaming
of angels. so I left it. where it belonged. but too late. I was
marked. It was me this time who left a piece
of myself. with a raven green fern.
©Malintha Perera 2015