The groundhog on the mountain did not run <br />But fatly scuttled into the splayed fern <br />And faced me, back to a ledge of dirt, to rattle <br />Her sallow rodent teeth like castanets <br />Against my leaning down, would not exchange <br />For that wary clatter sound or gesture <br />Of love : claws braced, at bay, my currency not hers. <br /> <br />Such meetings never occur in marchen <br />Where love-met groundhogs love one in return, <br />Where straight talk is the rule, whether warm or hostile, <br />Which no gruff animal misinterprets. <br />From what grace am I fallen. Tongues are strange, <br />Signs say nothing. The falcon who spoke clear <br />To Canacee cries gibberish to coarsened ears.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/incommunicado-3/
