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


All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2021 by Joshua Alan Sturgill. All rights reserved.

One thought on “Primrose

  1. If only we could all see heavenly ladders in obscure places. If we could just fully open our eyes, then these sights would exist all around us. But, we’re too busy to see them. Or to know them. Are we too busy to care?

    Like

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