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.
*Sylvia Plath. What we lost (we, our culture, our fellowship of readers, our literary world) when she took her life is so immense, it’s unimaginable. She was born on this day in 1932. <3