To be shared upon death

So I may have collected poisonous flowers from a mass of wildflowers on an unmarked grave under the hanging tree in the cemetery of an old Indian Mission Chapel with a long and violent history. And I may have accidentally brought home some of the grave soil that they came in when I was just trying to make sure they're happy in their new homes. I am not a witch. I swear. I just realized afterwards that I probably would have been put to death by that same little church had I done this 150 years ago. Good gardening feels so much like witchcraft sometimes... Watching the seasons closely. Hearing the rain. Waiting for life to happen on its own. Coaxing it along when you can... or collecting Siberian Squill from the local cemetery to plant in your wildflower garden. In the 1800s and early 1900s this church was used as the parish building for one of the most brutal residential schools on Vancouver Island. I don't think they would have been happy with me 'meddling' lo

I'm writing this as a private thought.  The publication of this (or not) shouldn't be dictated by its security, but by its audience.  If anyone reads this and finds value, it's public to them.  If enough people do, it is public anyway, and if it was really good and worth the reading security wouldn't matter anyway.  It would find a way out. I doubt this will be that kind of good.  But maybe someone will take a look when they're going to delete my final traces from long dead servers and subroutines.  Or will some of this live until the very end of the internet itself?  One can hope I guess. Are writers relaxed or preoccupied?  As a general rule?  You probably don't know.  I don't.  Does it even matter what other writers are?  This one is anxious and preoccupied and obsessive anyway.  Which is all that matters at this point one would assume.  The nature of a story teller is that of absolute control of what is said.  Others can only interject with permissio

She put me on a pedestal for all the world to see And how I longed to stay up high so she would look at me But further up she built my wall and I a clumsy man was never wont to fly with gods or be more than I am I couldn't stand for very long and fell for I had tarried The wings of stone I wore for her had torn before they carried Where I fell was where I broke into my separate parts A jagged, broken, slashing mess of broken bloodied hearts A tender hand has done her best to stitch and sew and wind But there were parts that wouldn't fit and more we couldn't find Some second hand, some more like hers, my shape began to take now stronger than I was before that climb I'll never make.

What of a world where I did not have her at my fingertips? A world of only silence, and thoughts, and aches, and memories. What of the final ending touch of the final moment of the final sleeping near? Or when her name flickers over the electric face of my screen for the last time? Or mine on hers. End, comma, The. Realizing this of every meeting destroys me. Each parting is a likely to be the last as any other before or after. 'If I could hold her once more--just once.' How the sad songstory goes... every story. Yet how differently I would cherish her. How long I would linger... The things I said - that I said I wouldn't say. The last phrase never the one we wanted it to be. The last glance so short, so scared, so broken. The embers in her tear stained eyes flicker out of existence right before me, because I didn't watch the fire... What if I'd known? What if I had acted like I had known? What if I always spoke as thought the next meeting will never be?