The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve. <br />On their blotter of fog the trees <br />Seem a botanical drawing - <br />Memories growing, ring on ring, <br />A series of weddings. <br /> <br />Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery, <br />Truer than women, <br />They seed so effortlessly! <br />Tasting the winds, that are footless, <br />Waist-deep in history - <br /> <br />Full of wings, otherworldliness. <br />In this, they are Ledas. <br />O mother of leaves and sweetness <br />Who are these pietas? <br />The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-trees-2/
