The dreams of an outback flower

I can feel myself getting sunburnt. Yes, the sun’s forceful embrace is peeking up from behind me, warming my back but also browning my edges. I did not choose to live here. I let myself breathe. I don’t have anywhere to go, or any way to get there.

Besides, I think to myself, I should be more grateful. It can’t be much better than this.

The sun is higher now, so my neighbours alert the world of their excitement. Of course, they’re free to chime and chatter, while I listen to the heavy flow of water just outside my line of vision. But their gentle whistles of “good morning” encourage me to stand up straighter.

It has been a long night, the dusty expanse of the Milky Way slightly covered last night by clouds.

A storm, the guardians had said.

A time of rest, the birds had whispered.

The storm, or any chance of it, has since faded into memory, the sun’s punishment for such eagerness. I believe the birds are disappointed at that, since it means our flowers will remain plain and the earth thick and tough.

No chance of a new sproutling, the whistlers complained across the canyon.

But still, some swift gasps of movement bring me away from my daydreams. I can feel my arms, long and wide, curling into themselves for protection. It’s defensive and yet counterproductive, since their underside is more sensitive. They begin to shudder from the overwhelming sunlight and die away from me. I am mad, then, at the carelessness the sun has for our offerings. My bright white petals are striped with love for the light we have.

And yet the world is pocketed with holes, and the sandy gravel where I stand is tough and tasteless, and the water I hear but cannot see smells of second-hand smoke and alcoholic singing. These are gifts we do not find blessed and are washed away briefly within the storms the great shining star tuts away from us. I let myself fold inwards, my ghost-green spine gently cracking from my focus. Beneath me, I feel the seed I was carried from and take a moment how far my neighbours would let me fly.

~

Inspired by the harsh desert-like environment that is the Ikara-Flinders Ranges in South Australia and written to show the perspective of a small white flower nestled among massive gum trees, unable to move, only able to dream, and slightly irritated by the sound of running water nearby.