One day without warning Spring arrives,
As predictable and unexpected as a death.
Birdsong and the smack of dripping water, car tires
Spitting on wet pavement sound strange and loud
In the soft air.
I am as empty as the trees and snowless land,
Stripped of winter’s enfolding wrap.
Now robins tug at swollen worms,
Raw green shoots split the earth.
Nature has her way.
In December the ground was frozen
Hard as a bone. It took a backhoe to dig the hole.
As long as I left traces in the snow
You still were here.
What’s dead is dead and I can live with that;
This rebirth’s an intolerable affront.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.
First Things is the antidote: literary excellence, timeless truths, and a fixed point of reference in a culture that has lost its bearings.
But we can’t do it without readers like you.
Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.
Your gift anchors readers in the permanent things.
Make your Fall Campaign gift now using the button below.
If you have any questions or would like more information, please contact Giovanni Del Piero, Director of the Editor’s Circle, at gdelpiero@firstthings.com or 212-627-1985.
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