The Wind

"I am a stigma," said P. "In this flower, atop an ovary, a long I with the smallest head, a dot attached, enclosed with inverted dress of petals. A wind moves my world, and I don't feel it, but see below me through the imperfectly folded petals a sheet of blue flecked with pollen that strives but never quite reaches me."

"A wind rocks me," said C. "I am the petals, and I protect and guide. My edges feel for each other, pull towards a central point. Around me flow ribbons of green, twisting and falling, browning and snapping. My task is an eternal folding and unfolding, guided by a gradual change of white to red to blue to black."

"Day turns over," said T. "The house behind me cools and warms the air. It shines white like a lost tooth. It echoes the moon. A breeze washes over the garden where dahlias and hollyhocks grow together. I eschew the path and tread yielding soil. It is night, and I should not be out. I stand hardly taller than the cow parsley which has crept in with its plates facing the moon, or the moon itself served sliced atop a stalk. I crouch beneath the apple tree. I am the rivers of dark that run between leaves and flowers, sending messages of night through green channels. The soil is warm and dry. My stomach flutters."

"The soil is warm and dry, and here beneath it I slowly grow," said R. "The weight of earth keeps me strong. I am forever reaching out, seeking, bending to carbon and oxygen, nitrogen and hydrogen, calcium and magnesium. Here there is only darkness. A movement is of no consequence to me, yet I am the most fragile thing. I can drown, and I can choke in air. The light burns me."

"There is a gap, and it is made for me," said M. "I triangulate by moon and find myself against the cool petals. It is warm and sweet inside. Here I may stay awhile as a wind pushes itself above."