Murmurs. Watcher Garden #17 (19.3.2)

Somewhere in the vastness it murmurs

It is not painful to look at the sun.

But it is.

It is painful to look at the sun.

It is not because of the heat, the gas, the sheer power, as has been decided.

It is because the eyes that live there do not want you looking back.

It is easy to create an entire existence if you are a brain.

So the illusion of pain, brightness, heat is easy.

To keep from seeing the eyes that do not want you looking back.

Hot Berry Dream. (19.3.21)

Falling, falling, falling.

Down. Up? Stop.

Whites meld other colors. Blues. Deep purple. Chasing playful passions.

Passions in the air, twisting vines of design across the fading white colors.

A blink is a century, wait. Bees make the colors and wipe them across the sky.

There is nothing but sky and working bees.

What else would you stand on but sky?

Sky in front, behind, is peace. Calm. Anxiety.

Behind is guttering worry, pressing on the senses but staying just out of consciousness.

Can’t see the peace behind. Only see the beauty in front, found after a fall.

Bees migrate between the worlds. Their passions trailing off at the precipice, wilting until their bee returns for them.

If their bee returns for them.

Emerging and returning bees bring the ingredients for the colors made to be wiped across the sky.

A passion barrels toward you. Hits you square and knocks the sky out from under you.

Falling.

Symbolistic metaphors.

Falling.

Pick your poison.

Falling.

Teach yourself which metaphor you see.

Fell.

Jerked awake hot and sweaty next to a bed not slept in. Foreboding and hope tangled together as unsupervised ropes, a jittery urge to do something, choose something.

Which thing? No matter.

Follow through on change, there will be.

Tea first, then decide. The kettle whistles. Cup clinks on a saucer. The fruit cup glitters with fruits.

Picked up on a whim at the market, couldn’t possibly hurt. Hot berry’s visions only a myth.

Then why does the hand shake as it brings tea to the lips?

What did you see? What did it teach you?

Which change will your choice bring?

It must be chosen after tea.

Choices and Chances. Watcher Garden #16 (19.5.17)

Choice is an illusion,

Sometimes

Choice is a circumstance

A situation

Held in stasis forcibly

Not allowed to leap.

Choose perhaps,

but not freely.

Only from a set selected for you

Rarely is indecision an individual’s fault.

They seek the whole picture,

A bird’s eye view,

Complete with highlight in the pupil,

To know truly what all the options are,

Why some cannot be opportunities taken,

Before making a choice,

While they can feel its illusion

Plastered over station, status, means.

….

Past illusions have brought them together,

Probability, improbability.

Will it be, this time,

Choice?

To go along with each other.

Justices Meeting. Watcher Garden #15 (19.4.23)

Evenings sweet tonight,

Hot sugar and fireflies floating.

Moccasins protection meeting mossy edges.

Edges orchestrating the demise of toughest rocks

Surviving themselves in delicacy over thousands of millenia.

Clutching pastry kebabs, a celebration of success that day, she follows the beckoning call to the rooftop.

Her trellis climb to freedom and rest.

Tripping gusts of wind playful around her feet as she steps up.

Justice of hers catches justice of another’s.

Trellis delicately strong for hundreds of footsteps, well traveled well known, snaps.

Weight of justice clinging to the ground, the newfound

Kindred spirit huddled.

Become awkward pile of legs, kebabs, startled fearful yelps.

Has luck run out?

Or found its complement?

Brilliance’s Breath. Watcher Garden #14 (19.4.23)

Brilliance trapped in beggar,

Kicked in the shins too many times,

Finally remanded from the wealthy quarters,

trudging now.

This trellis something pretty, something warm.

Something to welcome her.

She settles beneath the friendly nature on spindly spines.

Descendents of the garden here.

To breathe.

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.