No one will say it, but we knowtoday’s fresh-flamed hibiscus flowerreveals in one brief, glorious showour birth, our life, our final hour. Sacrament and synecdochelive in a pot near the atrium door,mirroring holy brevitywhich, in a day, is evermore. —Jane Greer Image by R. D. Smith, . . . . Continue Reading »
One way of telling the story of Western philosophy over the last few centuries is to present it as the rise and fall of a particular view of language. Gradually, piecemeal, the idea of language as primarily a matter of accurate naming and information-sharing has yielded to a recognition of language . . . . Continue Reading »
Thanks for playing. Here’s your consolation prize:a mountain capped with fog, the sun behind throwing light circumspectly on a lake, the waya painter lights a lovely face from out of frame. I’m sorry that you didn’t win, but here’syour daughter’s voice at eight floating on breath as softly . . . . Continue Reading »
Someone somewhere long ago with a pair of hands, a bit of earthand a thirsty soul, crafteda beautiful bowl. Just as someonenot so long ago made a buffaloof chrome, a staircase madeof stone, a cracked egg of dinosaurand a pendant made of bone. Just as someone long ago with a . . . . Continue Reading »
Two owls with awls for eyes look through the leather dark.Wise, we say. And so they are, shrewd masters of their barn, great misers of the moon, . . . . Continue Reading »
Ladew Gardens Hand-in-hand, through the famous garden’s roses,We stroll while gangs of children run amokUnwatched. You don’t want kids, you tell me. StruckBy the remontants, we pause, and our posesBriefly fail. Late light cut through by green shadesIn patterns like a roulette wheel. Dark . . . . Continue Reading »
Imagine the shell you findon the beach, a large conch,half-buried, glistening inmorning light, waiting to belifted, rinsed, held cupped to your ear: This is your body,listen and hear; blood flows,pulse ticks, the ocean hums,waves curl, crest, hushed, foamlicks wet sand, thoughts rise, dissolve, wind . . . . Continue Reading »
Perhaps you have heard: First Things has started a poetry prize. Continue Reading »
The seaside rock she sits on shines a blaze of purple shell and matte-glazed films of moss.She perches there, bent knees to chest, to gaze the gray and frosty feathered sea across.There, balanced on the edge of both the sea and sixteen, she can take some stock and . . . . Continue Reading »
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