The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.

Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.

A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.

Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling

All to itself on the top of each
Of nine black Alps.

A disturbance in mirrors,
The sea shattering its grey one ----

Love, love, my season.

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 5033 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Sylvia Plath (Sylvia Plath Art)
Poem: The Couriers
Volume: The Collected Poems
Year: Published/Written in 1962
Poem of the Day: Jan 11 2005
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