Nona had spent this morning, like so many mornings before, rooted in the expanse of an open field, rooted in the shadow of the great temple she now stands above, rooted in a field opened through the sacrifice of countless scores of martyred shrubs and trees; a holy site signifying the cycle of plantly existence. From mulch they are made and to mulch they shall return, and as mulch, they become a sacrifice to the perpetual care of the mighty Black Eye. The flesh of trees turned to chips, the shred of leaves turned to string, sugars to water, nectar to life. Mulch, made from the living, fed to the exalted.
Nona thought back to this field, now. She and the rest of her colony were spending the day locked in silent pose. Worshiping, as the plants do, in silent radiance. A ritual on each of the seventh day: Sun-day. The group was following the warbling instructions of their high priest, Frond Peter.
“Palms facing the sky.” He ordered. “Channel your plantly spirit: arms angled for balance and symmetry, feet rooted in soil, energy harvested from the sky, trunk strong, arms loose.”
The gathered congregation was asked to accept the direction of the breeze with unquestioned course. To submit passively to its influence. To suppress reason in favor of pure reaction to external stimuli.
Frond Peter serenaded in angelic melody:
My petals may not be sweet,
my stalks may not imbue.
My roots may not hold,
my trunk next to you.
But if I do not flower,
I know just … Continue reading