A Wild Fern

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

 

ferns

 

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