“The Couriers”
Sylvia Plath
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.
(Forget about online Tarot readings or horoscopes. I’m going with a random poem a day from Verse Libre for all my reflective musing. I think it’s got as much merit as anything else. Except for maybe phrenology.)