2 min read
Слушать

Love Letter

Not easy to state the change you made.

If I'm alive now, then I was dead,

Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,

Staying put according to habit.

You didn't just tow me an inch, no-Nor leave me to set my small bald

Skyward again, without hope, of course,

Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

That wasn't it.

I slept, say: a

Masked among black rocks as a black

In the white hiatus of winter-Like my neighbors, taking no

In the million

Cheeks alighting each moment to

My cheeks of basalt.

They turned to tears,

Angels weeping over dull natures,

But didn't convince me.

Those tears froze.

Each dead head had a visor of ice.

And I slept on like a bent finger.

The first thing I was was sheer

And the locked drops rising in

Limpid as spirits.

Many stones

Dense and expressionless round about.

I didn't know what to make of it.

I shone, mice-scaled, and

To pour myself out like a

Among bird feet and the stems of plants.

I wasn't fooled.

I knew you at once.

Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.

My finger-length grew lucent as glass.

I started to bud like a March twig:

An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.

From stone to cloud, so I ascended.

Now I resemble a sort of

Floating through the air in my

Pure as a pane of ice.

It's a gift.

0
0
68
Give Award

Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath (October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963) was an American poet, novelist, and short-story writer.

Other author posts

Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments

Reading today

Ryfma
Ryfma is a social app for writers and readers. Publish books, stories, fanfics, poems and get paid for your work. The friendly and free way for fans to support your work for the price of a coffee
© 2024 Ryfma. All rights reserved 12+