The Ancient Modern

Jimsonweed /  Joshua Alan Sturgill

I was betrothed to Beauty
and married young, with years
of youth ahead. We danced
easy roads; hard roads
were eased by our dancing.

But I was not beautiful.
I began to age, while 
Beauty kept her ancient 
grace. And I wanted her
to be exhausted

by my apologies and my
excuses, refusing more
often the invitations
she never ceased to extend.
And I wanted her

to sit at home, and proudly
fade with me in front
of the television, not far
from the microwave. But
in Winter, she is always

smiling with the snow, and
in Summer she still flies
around our garden, brushing
her lips against that stubborn
jimsonweedthe one I tried

to poison, the one
coming back year after year
in the poor soil under 
our bedroom window. Year
after year the same:

it spends its albedo
carelessly, and pours out
its ethereal libation 
in an effusion of waste
like an ignorant child.

All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2019 by Joshua Alan Sturgill

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