Who says we give away the pearls we own?
Think make-believe: think souvenir or prize
for weathering a storm, reaching a stone
ledge. Think yielding. It never happens. Eyes
that see beyond the sill will recognize
darkness cast by leaves, the loss of Sunday.
What do you mean? Old habits: our body
seeks the bullseye, brass ring, the vintage wine—
And wouldn’t the stray thumb rub a gaudy
crown? Still ours to pray for: the death of mine.
—Sofia M. Starnes
Photo by Rebecca Wilson via Creative Commons.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
In Praise of Translation
The circumstances of my life have been such that I have moved, since adolescence, in a borderland…
Artful Faith (ft. Stephen Auth)
In the latest installment of the ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein, Stephen Auth joins…
Work Is for the Worker
In these early days of his pontificate, Pope Leo XIV has made one thing clear: The responsible…
