Wednesday June 08, 2011

Evening primroses in the mid-morning heat: so yellow! As the sun climbs, the stigmas slowly retract their claw-shaped shadows.



    There is no primrose path to paradise, Stick.
    No, not sunshine yellow in mid-morning heat.

    I am specially drawn to the bramble trail
    of an endless desert. There is challenge there.

    But look, the primrose stigma casts claw-shaped
    shadows. Beware the simple; peril lurks there.

    When the sun climbs, these claws disappear,
    not unlike the oasis of a desert mirage. It’s not there.

    Shall I walk then through this garden of primroses?
    Nothing stirs here except the glare of buttercups.

    Little wonder then that primrose paths are yellow:
    Easy, smooth, untrammeled. Much travelled, too?

    It is the coward’s way, Stick. No pain, no gain.
    Huh? Why groan then? Why call our trek a real pain?

    Shut up, Stick. Follow the primrose path of sunshine.
    Huh? Why? Who said a ball of Jell-o is coloured yellow?

    —Albert B. Casuga

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