Clear water on a Catskill stream spills,
flowing down a smooth rock face
into a pool shaped like a cup held within
high rounded walls. A Chinese painting,
think of that, fine brush strokes forming
fissured cracks from which green ferns
unfurl lace while light falls feathered
through new leaves as I stand, dreaming,
rod in hand, in what I know is sacred space,
when all at once the water wakes as mayfly,
caddis, stonefly, midge rise, fluttering, to fly,
spin, dance, while trout, in frenzied feeding,
swirl; abundance, yes, the gift of that, from
living water springing forth.
—Sarah Rossiter
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
An American Pope at a Time of War
When it comes to papal matters in Rhode Island, I am often interviewed on the local news.…
The Almost-Greatness of Donald Trump and Leo XIV
Reading—for obvious reasons—Henri Daniel-Rops’s The Church in the Dark Ages, I have been repeatedly struck by the truism…
Finding a Pulse
Trueman’s new book, The Desecration of Man, should further cement his authority. It supplements, focuses, and in…
