| |
The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
On their blotter of fog the trees
Seem a botanical drawing.
Memories growing, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.
Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Waist-deep in history.
Full of wings, otherworldliness.
In this, they are Ledas.
O mother of leaves and sweetness
Who are these pietas?
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but chasing nothing.
Sylvia Plath
Read poems about / on: fog, history, women, mother, winter, woman, wedding, memory, tree, wind
|
|
User Rating: |
|
6.2
/10
(6 votes) |
|
|
|
Sylvia Plath
Free
Poetry E-Book:
E-mail this poem to e friend