Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










Juno’s Garden by Nancy Naomi Carlson

Jupiter spades the earth and sows the sky
while I tend thistle, mountain laurel, sage,
and a tumbleweed fire—hearthless, undying.
 
Nothing lasts for long above the tree line—
not even omens, clouded and shifting shapes.
Jupiter spades the earth and sows the sky
 
with pigeons, centaurs, bears, and broken lyres.
Music tuned to loss descends with rain.
I tend a tumbleweed fire—artless—that cannot hide
 
plots where nothing grows, where I’ve
planted diadems, Mother’s pearls, and peacock tails.
Jupiter spades the earth and sows the sky.
 
In this rock garden, under a layer of schist, lies
swan’s down, white and tender—oh so tender—saved
from a tumbleweed fire—breathless and blind;
 
darts from Cupid’s bow that have strayed;
Semele’s heart and Lamia’s eyes.
Jupiter spades the earth and sows the sky.
I tend a tumbleweed fire—heartless, unbridled.