Reading The Blue Clerk, (1)


A small leaf-like appendage to a leaf

I have waited over a year to find space to sit with. The leaves are falling. “Evergreen and deciduous.” Yes. The neem tree is flowering. Pollen floats through the air, bees swarm in glorious symphony on the whistling pine, the pollen falls, a carpet of full and was and might-have-been, and was. There are no regrets in this falling.

“I have withheld more than I have written.”

A sentence the whistling pine with its abundant bee-feeding pollen and life-seeking seeds knows and knows and knows and knows. So few move from pollen to seed, from seed to seedling, from seedling to sapling, from sapling to tree. Yet. Abundance is more than one path.

To read. Unfaithfully. To form along the unsaid.


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