Flash in the Pan
A Quarterly Posting at Tiny Lights
by Alegria Imperial
Evening has fallen, tarnishing all translucence.
Daffodils, for one, sprayed like comet behind a picket fence, are now turned-down copper bells. Magnolias, that crowd of plump cheeks on Warren Avenue, now doze on bruised faces.
Only dogwoods on front lawns seem to take to evening fall with grace. Their crown, a dull mantle in daylight, has turned into iridescent lace while on the ground ivy has thickened, breathing like a ghost.
Not colors but scents have taken over life in the dying day. But nothing like vapors that seem solid like steam or fog or mist, just weightless molecules spinning in the air.
"Fragrant" seems paltry if it were to mean the scent of violets blindly met along a cypress hedge on Montgomery St.-—a bouquet part spicy, part sweet, like a potion for a faint spirit. "Perfumed" weighs gaudily on jasmine for its scent from a terrace on Battery St.
descends as faint as a memory-—fleeting like all moments that come back to haunt.
The nose, is it? Or perhaps the heart leads the nose to track down the scent of roses. Some flourish in unlikely spots; they trap the heart in a patch back of a kitchen on Riverside, for instance. Here, rose bushes wear open faces. No secret chambers there.
Even in the evening, rose blooms thrust up as if to sing—-but not to sing, perhaps more to sigh. Listen then and breathe, for in opening their lips, their scent also escapes. Note that only in the evening this truth about roses is revealed: their scent hints at sour drops and salt sprays, tears and regrets and the million contradictions lodged in the heart.
Ten years ago, Alegria Imperial wouldn't have imagined writing for Tiny Lights. Her job as journalist/PR person for government, culture and the arts only allowed dreams of lyricism. That changed when she quit and plunged in the dream lake of fiction via a writing course at NYU.
"I'm transformed,"she says.
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