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
One thought on “Primrose”
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?