Heat Reader. (19.2.14)

I hold my hand over his chest, just until I can barely feel the warmth rising from him. He lives, still as death, half his greenish pale body covered carelessly with a thin, stained sheet. I keep my eyes on that side of him, trying to ignore the gash torn through his other hip. I start to read his heat.

There’s a growl from next to me. “Faster.”

“You know it takes patience.” I say quietly. And he knew the shackles that weighed cold and solid around my wrists got in the way of the read. They all knew.

Though, I could still read faster than they thought. I felt he wasn’t dead. I felt the treatment path. They knew about that part. that’s why I was here, a healer heat reader is useful in keeping their armies alive in the fight against my people.

They don’t know that I can read his importance. His determination, and his hatred.

This man would be incredibly hard to kill. But this time it’s not a bad thing, not a thing I will have to fight. This time it’s exciting.

My keeper tugs my hand away from his body with the shackle. “What this one need?”

I duck my head to hide the flash of excitement in my eyes.

“Take me to the doctor, I must tell him something.”

. . . .

That night I sit alone, finally, in my cell. Legs crossed on the flat sleep mat, calm. My mind races, despite my forced outer calmness.

The man lying on the table this afternoon, he hated the army, the war, his superiors, as much as I do. He wants them to parish.

When I read his heat it wasn’t life simply life, death, or rot heat. I read his heat as the leader of the resistance.

Our Resistance. Salvation.

This man, I’m excited to see better.

To see who my partner in saving my world will be.

Births. Watcher Garden #12 (19.3.2)

This present is other’s past.

Thus those who walk here do not know the answers.

How is a garden born?

But, descendants listen.

They plant the seed, a shard.

Something new will grow.

.

Collecting old pieces,

Knowing their places,

And putting them together differently.

Buildings grown of dust, pain and imagination rise from the earth.

Crystals, shattered shards.

Flicking sunlight warped to expose color back to the star that sent it.

A shiny pile of broken pieces from the eyes above, hidden in places impossible.

Intentional, whole, useful, to the eyes that live beneath it.

Unintended Questions. Watcher Garden #11 (19.2.1)

You cannot read the future but the past doesn’t hold the answers.

Only failed solutions wrapped in truths, memories, and lies.

Why does remembering unlock the new?

This is a question the garden was not imagined to answer. Try a different collection in the next universe over.

Of Spiders and Butterflies. Watcher Garden #10. (19.5.18)

Gossamer Currents,

Deciding and unfolding, retangling the language to allow for a mistake.

To be truth without making the first truth a lie.

The garden knows truths, hidden away in memories.

Now is made of memory too.

For all is true.

Traditions made definitions broken yet sustained.

Which one? Yes.

Spiders know the world is vast enough.

Change will happen as it sees.

Garden watching keeping dramas of language for the moments copied in its vaults.

Gossamer is of spiders

Butterflies on stolen wings, costumed performer they,

To the spider’s engineered flight

Is it stealing or borrowing? Mildly twisting or breaking?

These answers will not be catalyzed until many of future’s moons have wavered from their studious courses.

Perhaps an apocalypse or two.

Of course it’s only one girl’s lifetime.

Two girl’s unborn partnership.

A world’s shock.

And a Garden’s awakening.

Rain, Catalyzed. Watcher Garden #8 (19.2.1)

Vast pool of information catalyzing into chains of molecules, the slime that pours itself from beakers. Found by a girl huddled in the corner of a street in the busy part of the town, where the suits and proper houses stand. Playing in a puddle with a stick or a finger, discovering the strands of water that hold themselves together with a stir.

The girl who’s met the spirits, who would know how to birth sciences, if only given the chance.

She stirs the water, its links finding themselves, information evaporated from the gardens and rained down upon the town.

Mechanisms not understood.

A misery to the one who sleeps in the street. Then a magic.

If she can understand the links, she can unlock the self she longs for beneath her skin.

Complications. Watcher Garden #7 (19.2.1)

Guesses perhaps, are the creation of a new path, for a new universe. Perhaps their guesses permeate our universe, soaking into constraints, shifting the tides.

Each then, walks amongst other universes, casting their own multiverses in their gazes, their speculations.

These complications, they do not stir the otter sleeping in a calm eddy of the quandary river running through the edge of the garden. The otter’s whiskers twitch with dreams, their paws curling about themselves in comfort.