For The Poet Sylvia
Ode to a flower. Waxing waning petals raining
lady low to the earth.
She died soon enough to rough her place among
the diamond's girth. Brazen be this woman -
narcotic to humanity.
Hers is without remedy. Woman's spirit stirs
paper to pen like tree to wren.
Bird alights as it looms. Rows of tombs guard
the graveyard. She spouts lines of verse
terse and extreme reams of prayer.
Ghosts bare and exact thieve the night.
Woman inspires - she aspires to grieve
with crippling insight. They blot her face and
sprinkle her flame. So she claims.
At the drop of the sky she scurries far
and buries her roots beneath the soil.
The spoils of regret chip away and woman flakes off.
Gardener of our Eden rakes the dirt
from the poet's hair.
Memory of fair sleek lady rings and vibrates.
She stings and sedates.
Portland, OR,, USA
Monday, March 29, 1999
The Sylvia Plath Forum is administered by Elaine Connell, author of Sylvia Plath: Killing The Angel In The House.
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