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Article Communautés Concours Essai Multimédia Personnelles Poèmes Presse Prose _QUOTE Scénario Spécial | ||||||
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2010-08-08 | [Ce texte devrait être lu en english] |
Walking fresh in the morning,
watching for the brightly-stitched and quilted grass parrots that congregate under the she-oaks like scattered pin-cushions, I take the downhill path through Trinity Park, (the flora, the sun, and the old lamp-post), and, as usual, look up to admire the unctuous and fleshy cups perched inscrutably, like tiny buddhas, on the magnolia tree. One fat and fulsome flower is almost within reach- I could pick it, but... only yesterday, I stole one home and dropped it in a tumbler beside my bed. The lemon stink of its innards was beyond bearing, so that I had to banish the thing outside my door to the cold corridor. And, this morning, now contemplating the stealing of that oiled and fecund bloom, I remember the bloated and blowsy one, now loose-leaved and besmirched at the edges. Soon, within hours, it will be discarded and moulting... finally, a mess of singed paper, like the edges of the crumpled maps we ruthlessly tea-stained and scorched at school. It makes me realize why I should have left you alone, quietly blossoming obese on your breakable branch, instead of wanting so hard and taking. It makes me realize how I should have walked away, instead of reaching a greedy hand to snap! you, waxy leaves and all from your shaded bower.
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