Carrot and Mist

Two Poems by Janie Miller


Planet spins toward today’s end
in the hulk of summer’s harvest.
Yanked the carrot right out of dirt—
snap, snap went the cords of its life
the planet & I fed.

The greens brushed my arm
like so many family’s hands missing
from my life, their underground tethers.

I bite deep
into the carrot’s core—snap—and the mulch of
sweetness stings me.

Revealed in the carrot’s body is Fibonacci
and the sequences of the living. See them
in there, radiating ancestors like stars?

I wonder how its spirit left—if the roots
took themselves back to dirt
like time’s retrieval—or if it was rental—

this orange death I stole
a car, a boat, home, or
body wandering this whole life long.



Lavender mist at lake’s edge
is a human thought
so is the grey sea ushering a myth inside of me
leaving pearls like lost asylums
in my lungs

I breathe
in the vapor of these illusions

the sea amending the weariness of this body

of the planet’s ardor
at sunrise

before the great order of loss and survival
calls the fog from its castle

returning the swans to distant magic, the crows to
their nighttime shores

we return
exactly the same as we arrived

  • Janie Miller

    Janie Miller lives on Vashon Island.