A Lament for Sylvia

A Lament for Sylvia
Regarding Sylvia Plath

She is polished by the sun,
the moon, the veils of sorrow

So hurt by, yet so in love with memories

that forge concepts into poems.

And they wax the eyes of our melancholy days—

Could we accept pages less cold to touch?

An unopened birthday gift rests on her desk

as benevolent bees sting blue stars

And death is a concept buried

beneath that future winter.


(From the book Kairos)