Who says we give away the pearls we own?
Think make-believe: think souvenir or prize
for weathering a storm, reaching a stone
ledge. Think yielding. It never happens. Eyes
that see beyond the sill will recognize
darkness cast by leaves, the loss of Sunday.
What do you mean? Old habits: our body
seeks the bullseye, brass ring, the vintage wine—
And wouldn’t the stray thumb rub a gaudy
crown? Still ours to pray for: the death of mine.
—Sofia M. Starnes
Photo by Rebecca Wilson via Creative Commons.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Talkin’ God and Football
Paul Finebaum is known as “the mouth of the South,” but he does a lot of listening.…
Letters—October 2026
I’m grateful for Stephan Pax Leonard’s essay on his conversion to Orthodoxy (“Why I Became Orthodox,” June/July…
Creedal Orthodoxy Won’t Save Us
Pundits tell us that we are moving beyond the culture wars. Left and right are merging in…
