I will arrange the ones that are
Whole, with ancient gods
On their sides, beneath
The rounded iron arm of the bench.

And the large gyampho pot,
Used to store grain, I will put
By the entrance, and fill
With earth, until it is
Full and rounded, ready
To receive pink blooms
Of a plant which my mother
Saw in some other garden,
And quietly carried a branch off
In her leather bag, less thief
And more bird and bee,
To plant in a small corner,
Then into an ancient ghyampo pot,
Where it will bloom to full glory.

Deep into the night, I hear
Music, farmers evoke gods
And rains, late into the night,


Outside our gates, the Jyapu
Farmers play instruments
Deep into the night. They clash
Cymbals and bang on drums,
Evoking gods that only they
Know the identity of.

Only in Handigaon, people say,
They shake their heads, laugh.
We have the most jatras
in the entire Valley.
Thirty-six jatra, at last count.
The Village of Pottery,
The oldest inhabited space
in the Kathmandu Valley.

Underneath my garden wall,
As if by magic, a thousand pots
Appear—broken shards,
Pieces that are almost archaeological finds.