Support First Things by turning your adblocker off or by making a  donation. Thanks!


At dawn, the shapes of cypresses in fog
were fingers pointing up from graves, as if what’s born
might rouse the dead into an epilogue
of mist that lifted, leaving swatches in whitethorn.


My breath’s the ectoplasm of a ghost
in ringing air. The local churches call
the faithful while I mark the creed of lost
beginnings on the switchback up the hill.

The farmland outside Rocca Ripesena
is a winding-sheet about to open.
The uncut grasses, curled and white with rain,
are loosening to face the sun upslope.

From a bush nearby I hear an unknown whistle,
indomitably upbeat: “Wake! It’s time!”
The birds are in their skeletal cathedral
and I am in my body that’s not mine.

I see a finch perched on a branch’s suture,
hopping into the darkness of the future.

—Andrew Frisardi

00 Days
00 Hours
00 Minutes
00 Seconds
Dear Reader,

Your charitable support for First Things is urgently needed before the clock above hits zero.

First Things is proud to be a reader-supported enterprise, and the Spring Campaign is one of only two major reader giving drives each year. It ends on June 30 at 11:59 p.m.

Your gift will fortify First Things to speak boldly on behalf of religious voices in the public square ahead of a pivotal season for our nation and the church.

Please give now.

Make My Gift