Flash in the Pan
A Quarterly Posting at Tiny Lights
by Alegria Imperial
A harried day is ending. The climb up the avenue has left me breathless. A smoky orange plate dangles over tops of straggly trees. My hands have turned rust; the highway, a dull beaten gold.
On the hill on stubbly grass yellow dots spark:
nothing but the last of dandelions, those persistent weeds blooming insistent flowers—tiny petals in helium yellow burning like a scandal.
No one tarries on a dandelion patch to meditate on nail-sized faces—such touching shyness. One sees malicious growth instead—if left thriving, dandelions could suffocate seeds and roots and bulbs that promise glory.
I have no tomorrows of American Beauty or rose-lipped tulips. Right off my window a sheet of ivy had smothered all life, climbing now to throttle a thin birch. Oh yes, life creeps on the ivy—on agile paws and furry tails those acrobats flashing pebble eyes whose pointed mouths could only hold one nut at a time, no pretenses there.
And so expecting no glories now or tomorrow, I stop half bent to peer at the flowering weeds, relishing the sound of their name. These weeds, are they perhaps a kin to Leo, the constellation the sun rules?
A hiss in the creeping dusk replies: even in their waning brightness, their masquerade entrances. Close to the ground, humbled it seems, dandelions nod smugly, engaged in their nature—a fascinating though familiar if intimate thought.
When I turn away, I feel my eyes on my steps afraid that in crushing one yellow dot I would find in its shreds the heart of my own pretensions.
Alegria Imperial says about herself,"An endless sense of wonder is all I think I have. It has been the source of all light for me. And each spark has been a flash of words—what else could it be?"
A retired Manila journalist, Alegria started writing fiction and poetry only recently.
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