SUGAR ASTROLOGY
Poem in a Zodiac: Tree at the Noguchi Museum, Long Island City, NY
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by Shari Zollinger
Illustrations by Holli Zollinger​
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I recently visited the Noguchi Museum in Long Island City, NY. I spent a whole afternoon looking at what this provocative Japanese sculptor left behind including massive abstract stone, quiet monoliths, a garden, and a tree. This season's astrology is a single poem, parsed between signs and inspired by that tree in the garden. It can be read in whole-poem form or in separate, austere, private messages per astrological sign—a poem nestled inside a Zodiac.
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ARIES
March 21 to April 19
Tread carefully because if you’re lazy you’ll call it ineffable and be done.
TAURUS
April 20 to May 20
And, if you’re not vigilant, you’ll let the New Age proclaim divine.
GEMINI
May 21 to June 21
There will be the way the leaves caught wind as you talked to Emily on a wooden bench,
CANCER
June 22 to July 22
its roots spy-hopping through gray rock.
LEO
July 23 to August 22
There will be a drop or two of rain.
VIRGO
August 23 to September 23
You’ll reach too hard toward the scene, the way you used to do,
LIBRA
September 24 to October 22
when everything had meaning, and just as you used to, you’ll call for language or belief.
SCORPIO
October 23 to November 21
You’ll reference the Rilke tree.
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SAGITTARIUS
November 22 to December 21
You’ll tell Matthew about thresholds in urban nature.
CAPRICORN
December 22 to January 19​
But soon you’ll see nothing special happened so hard it threw you back on yourself.
AQUARIUS
January 20 to February 18
And this time, upon this buoyant irregularity, with language unattainable
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PISCES
February 19 to March 20
you’ll call up Rilke again, and at least thank him for trying.
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•â€‹
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Tread carefully because if you’re lazy you’ll call it ineffable and be done.
​
And, if you’re not vigilant, you’ll let the New Age proclaim divine.
​
There will be the way the leaves caught wind as you talked to Emily on a wooden bench,
​
its roots spy-hopping through gray rock.
​
There will be a drop or two of rain.
​
You’ll reach too hard toward the scene, the way you used to do,
​
when everything had meaning, and just as you used to, you’ll call for language or belief.
​
You’ll reference the Rilke tree.
​
You’ll tell Matthew about thresholds in urban nature.
​
But soon you’ll see nothing special happened so hard it threw you back on yourself.
​
And this time, upon this buoyant irregularity, with language unattainable
​
you’ll call up Rilke again, and at least thank him for trying.
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