Blackberry vines,
you hold this ground
in the shade of a willow:
all thorns, no fruit.
*
Pitcher sage, your fuchsia flowers
are crusted brown,
trading tenderness for seed.
*
Anna apple, you are barely four feet high,
but a pair of spotted globes depend
from one small branch—a twig, really.
*
Thistle down, you are softer
than the spines from which you blow,
but your sole purpose is to drift
and plant more pain.
*
Green toyon buds, brown at the mouth
then toothy white, the bees
are waiting for your good cheer.
*
Nasturtium, your orange joy
does not belong on this stream bank.
But still, you are welcome here.
*
Burnt section of log along the path,
what was it like to go up in flames
when the wind blew fire
down from the mountain?
—Paul Willis
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.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
A Culture of Parricide
I learned a new word the other day: déploration. It’s the French, directly from the Latin, for “lament.”…
The Chariot Burials
Wheeling through the clotted earth, / Bronze, bone, and leather clumped in clay...
William of St. Thierry
“Where love and understanding join, hearts are tranquil, / They rise above the turmoil of this world…
