Translucent white ghost finger

The Indian Pipe - Monotropa uniflora - stood in the damp shade behind the barn this August afternoon. It was a translucent white - the color of a ghost’s finger - or a pearl that had forgotten the sea. The stem felt cold. It possessed no green - it asked nothing of the Sun. It was a miracle of pallor - until the pencil touched the page.

Monotropa uniflora.

The Latin fell like a heavy lid. The plant was no longer a spirit in the moss - it became a classification. To name a thing is to tether it - to pull the wildness out of the dirt and fasten it to a shelf. The white turned to a greyish bruise where the thought of the word pressed against the stem. The “uniflora” part narrowed the vision - it forced the eye to see the single bell - when before - the eye saw a quietude.

Names are the cages we build to keep the Infinite from escaping. Once the label is licked and applied - the mystery begins to evaporate. The Indian Pipe becomes a Datum - a thing to be counted - a resident of a Phylum. The shivering quality of its existence - the way it seemed to breathe without breath - is replaced by a Latin certainty.

The woods are full of these small assassinations. A bird is a thrush - and suddenly the song is a property of the name - rather than a rupture in the air. The specimen in the mind is always more vivid than the specimen in the book - because the book requires a signature.

The pencil is put away. The Indian Pipe remains in the shade - but it is heavier now. It carries the weight of its own definition. The dampness of the earth is still there - but the name has dried the wonder. The flower is now a fact. Facts are the boundaries of the soul.