We carry our small griefs like stones in pockets.
We rub them smooth with worry, thumb their cold
solidity, and palm their petty weight.
At work, in restaurants, with husbands or with wives,
we warm them in our hands, their prattle low
and light against our thighs. Deep down, we know
there’s so much more to lose, that in the night
a telephone can ring, or a cry might come
from a darkened room and send us running
into a new and empty life. These stones
will spill across the hardwood floors, their rain
unnoticed in the stillness of the house.
—Rob Griffith
JD Vance States the Obvious About Ordo Amoris
We are living, it scarcely needs saying, in unpredictable times. But no one could have imagined that…
Thinking Twice About Re-Enchantment
Since the Enlightenment and the scientific revolution, the story goes, we’ve lived more and more in a…
The Bible Throughout the Ages
The latest installment of an ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein. Bruce Gordon joins in…