WISPS
by Fatima B. Baduria
W
ith a snap of my fingers and a flick of my hand, my fingertips emulate the glaring sun, as warm and ablaze. If I wish, they would spring up in rows, bright yellow daffodils, red tulips pink peruvian lilies, and white daisies; they would shift directions at a glance, the wind and tilt of the raindrops, the sunbeams and tree branches, the clouds and their shade below as I recline on a water oak leaf, at ease in the morning breeze. Then out of the blue came vicious, thundering footfalls trampling on my charms and wishes, HINTAYAN
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