For every lean brown cow, a makeshift shack for shelter
made of splintered planks and poles,
crowned with dented, rusted tin.
For every bamboo leaf, at dawn, one bead of dew,
crystal clear, and empty”open
like a lens to let light in.
For every petal floating on the surface of the pool,
shadows trembling on smooth stones
underneath still water’s skin.
And for each wretch who falters, and falls beside the road,
an hour of sleep, and dreams”no matter
what he’s done, or where he’s been,
no matter where he says he goes,
or what on earth he thinks he knows.
Disney Adulting (ft. Veronica Clarke)
In this episode, Veronica Clarke joins Germán and Virginia (who are subbing in for R. R. Reno)…
Tennyson’s Poetic Faith
Richard Holmes’s new biography, The Boundless Deep, depicts how Alfred Lord Tennyson absorbed the scientific discoveries of…
Letters—June/July 2026
The sentimental images painted of proud, tight-knit communities slowly crumbling away are compelling, but I have to…