Reading The Blue Clerk, 152

“Verso 41.1”

What the wind carries. What the wind bears. What travels in the wind. What travels with the wind. You smell something that recovers memories you could not have had. A voice calls. It sounds familiar. A flash of color moves. You do not need to stand still. You can move with the wind’s movements.

I smelled twelve thousand desert flowers.

On the forecast, the wind seems orderly, moving in one direction, to one purpose, to bring rain or sun or pollen, to uproot a tree or a church or a school, to rearrange landscapes into more pleasing shapes.

The aphids dove in the shape of anchors.

A colony of aphids nestle in the canna. I do not want to disturb them. But this was about what the wind moves. Or how we imagine winds gather and what they whisper to one another when they meet. Do they shout?

There is this about my job, the day is a bright one, the sea billowing.

What keeps the clerk. What surprises the clerk. What arrives for the clerk. What the clerk receives as gift and pleasure. There are unexpected things. Even in what is expected. Insects nestle in leaves and flowers and mulch. A flower is a home. I am speaking from the small world that curates me. Where I learn, daily, the joy of wonder in the small miracles of sprout and seed. I harvest vegetable leaves with holes, evidence that many of us have been fed by the same plant. Why would I resent such abundance?

(I was interrupted, brought to a place I have not left, where I stay because I must. And now I must linger there a little longer.)

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