The Asters / Joshua Alan Sturgill
Asters grew above the ashes
of Achilles’ golden urn
and to fields burned by drought
the asters first return.
Now the garland crown of Summer,
golden-hearted, purple-rayed
namesake of the stars, the asters
grace my father’s grave.
Men and flowers, both, persist
in interweaving soil and sky.
Does our common toil continue
after we have died?
Some say death’s an endless question
for which answers can’t be found.
Or are words of heaven’s wisdom
written on the ground?
O lyrics lifted from a hymnal!
Nodding lines of poetry!
Instruments of angels, playing
music of a mystery!
— you I ask, what fate awaits us:
loss or emptiness or bliss?
Edicts from eternity,
O asters, tell me this!
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