The Wasteland
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair / Spread out in fiery points / Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. (T. S. Eliot)The spirits are departed. Wind pulls final desiccated leaves, clutching, scrabbling from their roost to litter the frozen riverbank. Turbulent waters drift dark and insistent toward the abandoned flatlands to the south. Under scrutiny, the icy hedges bear...