Yesterday I walked down the long
hill toward the lake horizon,
Ontario moved inscrutably
northeast. So many leaves on the ground
whose little remaining color had leached out,
and legions of mares’ tails in the western sky
curved firmly as if just brushed, preceded by
spaced paw prints overhead, their eastward
direction signifying the coming front.
This morning is gray and wet. Most of the leaves
of the Japanese maple briefly flake the old earth scarlet,
and the air is streaked with scattered gold.
We’ve choked so long on the cold directed against us,
what a breath of relief to find cold just being cold
William Pruitt is a fiction writer, storyteller, poet, and an Assistant Editor with Narrative Magazine He has published stories and poems in such places as Ploughshares, Anderbo.com, Otis Nebula , Crack of the Spine Literary Magazine, Midway, Indiana Voice Journal, Hypertext, the Tipton Poetry Journal, Leaping Clear and Cottonwood.
His most recent book, The Binding Dance,is a sequence of poems thematically unified by the need for story in the dreams of time and the self.Characterized by direct speech, it avoids literary affectation, while preserving the values of sound and metaphor.
His most recent book, The Binding Dance,is a sequence of poems thematically unified by the need for story in the dreams of time and the self.Characterized by direct speech, it avoids literary affectation, while preserving the values of sound and metaphor.
Latest posts by William Pruitt (see all)
- Late Fall 2020 - September 22, 2021
- When Everything Gets Back to Normal - September 22, 2021