The Ancient Modern

Telling Time  /  Joshua Alan Sturgill         

Last night, stepping into sleep,
I thought: tomorrow I’ll wake

ready for important things.  But 
morning passes again, and I

spend the hours idly scribbling
shallow marks on the world

like sparrows’ tracks among
fallen oak leaves.  I drink a fifth

cup of tea; I listen to the clock
without looking to see the time.  

What use am I — except that I
can tell the seasons
by the sparrows’ songs?

All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2022 by Joshua Alan Sturgill. All rights reserved.

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