Petals We found a small plant growing in the rift of a split stone. There seemed so little space for anything to hold: how could those roots find passages to reach the fertile clay? We could not trace their paths. And yet, long shoots lifted themselves above the cracked rockface, encouraged by warmth and sunlight. Where they curled tendrils into the air, ringlets unfurled, revealing in their motions delicate red buds, whose calyxes, in sequence, fell onto the flashing stone. The tendrils’ sway seems almost like a dance: the small buds swell, their changing hues describing intricate transfigurations: metamorphosis of green into a prism’s synthesis of every kind of light, collecting here, almost for us, all colors into one, as if those blossoms’ beauty could convey something eternal, even as they spun their petals open, welcoming the clear pure sunlight, as one welcomes a great gift.
Courtship I stood there in the batter’s box near dusk, my hands already talced, my cap just slant, all limbering and loose, waved my turned bat across the plate a couple times. I dug my left foot way inside, my right foot braced almost outside the line, and then looked up. She nodded, wound, and let the first one go straight down the middle. I took my best swing and found only the empty air: Strike one. I saw her fingers spinning on the next and, liking curves, angled my swing towards right but missed completely. Two. I saw her smirk. The third came hot. Low and inside. I whiffed, and stood there, shocked. I watched her wind again. Ok, I said, why not? And this time swung for center, deep. Her change up fooled my eye. And so it went, past sunset, as she threw and I kept missing while the darkness fell.
Fredericksburg Literary & Art Review Volume 3, Issue 1
FLAR is an independently published literary and art magazine located in Fredericksburg, Virginia.