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The Couriers

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.
Other works by Sylvia Plath ...



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