The Ancient Modern
Primrose / Joshua Alan Sturgill
Once and now
on NM Highway 52, between
Cuchillo Peak and Truth
or Consequences, I passed
beneath a profligate Primrose
hanging from a heat-baked bridge.
Its leggy, sprawling vines as full
of adobe-white flowers as the sky
is full of silence. A primrose
is the pivot of the universe;
joined on its rim, the sun and I circle
opposite, below and above, on
the highway and the blue ecliptic.
Time is a place; space is a moment.
The single world is a sacred bowl filled
with light as with holy water; a primrose
is its rantistirion soaked in blessings.
Extension draws back into itself.
And the lengths of all journeying
is just a standing still
to receive benediction, head bowed,
arms folded over my heart. I see
time and motion and necessity,
matter and light and ranks of stars:
my fellow travellers. Heat-haze
rising from the road, music announcing
the Great Return, mountain buttresses
of the cosmic Temple: you and I know
this is the house of God
this is the gate of Heaven.
The angels’ ladder is a Primrose
hanging from a heat-baked bridge