by L. Ward Abel<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He built an ant hill by the fence line
\nand thought it was the world.<\/p>\n
And he painted too
\nthe dry fields there\u2014
\nwesterly, ragged, worn-out,
\ntheir only tinge
\nthe blood on his brush.<\/p>\n
He let the grotto go wild
\nnear a long wall of cottonwoods
\nuntil a unison of light
\nwith breathing
\nwould later return.<\/p>\n
And he wrote with
\nsomething of an accent\u2014
\nlike ones heard in old
\ngroceries on dirt road corners
\nknown to locals and
\nonly to a few of them.<\/p>\n
His novels explored the theory
\nof colors
\nwithout color, without words
\njust shades, gradation
\nfrom hearing to vision,
\netcetera.<\/p>\n
He built an ant hill
\nby the fence line
\nand thought
\nit was the world.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
L. Ward Abel\u2019s work has appeared in hundreds of journals (Rattle, Versal, The Reader, Galway Review, Worcester Review, Main Street Rag<\/em>, others), and he is the author of four full collections and eleven chapbooks of poetry, including Green Shoulders\u2014New and Selected Poems 2003\u20132023<\/em> (Silver Bow, 2023), and The Teller\u2019s Road<\/em> (Bottlecap, 2025). He is a retired lawyer and teacher of literature, he writes and plays music, and lives in rural Georgia.<\/p>\n
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