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.
-Sylvia Plath
This is one of the poems I have earmarked in my hard copy of Ariel over and over again. The rhythm of this poem thrills me and takes me for a ride...I never remember the cadence until it is upon me. The meaning of this poem escapes me, but makes me look at all of the different "couriers" we come across on a daily basis- bleeding meaning, sneaking it in to our days, one leaf at a time.
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