Below these bluffs, branch water
like a wind in leaves
ruffles the hollow. The rush and spill
sings through bare timber.
Stretched in the sun on this rough rock,
I feel the stir among the hickory buds,
the red tips on the maple, and wonder
who could name these sounds—the flowing
over,
the surging around roots and stones.
Up north, a man too young
to limp and stumble, with children
not yet grown, lies in bed
after biopsy, making what terms he can
with a brain tumor. All winter
it kept roaring in his ears
with no interpreter. Now he has one.
Downstream my wife bathes her feet
by a sweetgum tree.
For you, John, heaven might start like this,
from bedrock, when one voice
that fills all hollows
like the voice of many waters
stops singing in an unknown tongue.
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
The Church in the Age of Therapy
In 1966, Philip Rieff wrote in The Triumph of the Therapeutic that “Religious man was born to…
Canada’s Deadliest Blind Spot
On September 20, the Daily Mail ran a story with the provocative headline, “Our 83-year-old Christian grandmother…
The Faithful Joy of Dolly Parton and Fulton Sheen
Dolly Parton and Fulton Sheen seem to have had little in common. She favored rhinestones; he wore…
