after Giotto
Even the air is priceless: gold pressed thin
And sharp as sunlight sheared by an eclipse.
It flickers through the brushwork of her skin,
And flares in arcs between her fingertips.
Crested on her azure gown, there shine
Faint stars of wrought gold foil that ride its sea
On waves of folded darkness half-defined
By pigments ground from lapis lazuli.
Her child blooms bright vermilion at her breast:
The rose that Easters outward past all praise.
Robed in fire, his circlet the sun, he rests
In love’s resplendence, crowning her changeless days.
So Giotto, the craftsman, shows us with paints
A type of shining: never ours to hold,
But held for us, like the halos of the saints,
To mark our space within the greater gold.
First Place — 2025 First Things Poetry Prize
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