We talk about roots
And I have some concept
Spent my summer
Digging up plants
And moving them
To other places.

I was the self-proclaimed
Smiling Creator

But my heart
Is at home
In the hills

I can breathe here
And it has always
Been so

Limestone
Is in my bones

The sound the hawk makes
Is my blues

Early morning
I heard a dew drop
opening its white wings ;
each crack parted
a turning wave
a frost bubbling over.              
Within its eyes
the world was moving
in a daze.
About to explode
holding out to the sky
it coughed out life
a moist lick
on a coarse dry leaf.

© Malintha Perera

A buttercup was beautifying
for the afternoon dance
her cheeks were flushed with water
the garden sprinkler had thrown on.
Her petals were fully stretched to a softness
that even the  butterflies slipped when they trod upon.
the sun beams bounced off on the mirrored smoothness
and a bumblebee looked on hovering above with second thoughts
envying her golden locks.
She bathed in the sunlight turning every cheek for the warm rays
batting her long anthers dipped with thick orange powder.
I watched her shake her hips to the folk wind tunes
tip toeing into my heart
slowly
her yellow liquid lined eyes delving mine
making me smile
when I have almost forgotten how.