After it was clear that she was gone, my sister Wanda rose from the floor where she’d been sitting— we’d all gone from standing or huddling there on the rug around her bed; perhaps we had fallen to our knees in unconscious obedience to the largesse that had claimed our mother, the invisible power she had joined— and crawled into bed beside her, nestling next to her under the covers just as we’d all done when we were children.
—Tracy K. Smith, From Ordinary Light
AboutPoets think in lines, prose writers in sentences; the best of both work from sound to sense, with an ear for the music in their compositions. S for Sentence celebrates lyricism in prose, the play and craft at work in the artful sentence. We post a sentence a month along with comments by a guest writer on the craft that shapes it, on what makes it great. In one or two sentences.
—Pearl Abraham, Editor