Edith Piaf must be hiding somewhere around here. She of La Vie en rose fame.
For the past three nights, I have been treated to one of those mysterious light tricks just before the sun sets.
My garden walls and many of the flowers usually fall safely in the orange range of the color wheel. But each evening around 8, something unusual happens. The walls, The flowers. The trees. The air itself. All turn pink.
And not one of your lame pink lady, pink Cadillac pinks. This pink is ethereal, but it is strong enough to seep into everything in the back yard. As if a Ginger Rogers negligee’s soul had escaped into the ether.
I notice it most in my little kingdom because of its enclosed space. Where pink calls unto pink.
But a walk around the laguna last night disclosed that the pink world at dusk is a universal phenomenon. If Melaque were the universe.
I suspect it is nothing more than a reflection of the sunset. That is what my scientist friends would say. Mere light refraction. Nothing to get excited about.
But I am not a scientist. And though also not a poet, I fall closer to that edge of this division of world views.
All I know is that it is beautiful. And maybe, just maybe, this is one of the gifts that comes from our tropical heat.
Pink clouds and dreams that The Little Sparrow may have had it just right:
Give your heart and soul to me
And life will always be
La vie en rose.
Note: If you would like to hear a bit of Edith in her prime, you can find her here.
