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.