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Post by Magalucia on Mar 22, 2008 17:49:24 GMT -5
Polly's Tree
Sylvia Plath
A dream tree, Polly's tree: a thicket of sticks, each speckled twig
ending in a thin-paned leaf unlike any other on it
or in a ghost flower flat as paper and of a color
vaporish as frost-breath, more finical than any silk fan
the Chinese ladies use to stir robin's egg air. The silver-
haired seed of the milkweed comes to roost there, frail as the halo
rayed round a candle flame, a will-o'-the-wisp nimbus, or puff
of cloud-stuff, tipping her queer candelabrum. Palely lit by
snuff-ruffed dandelions, white daisy wheels and a tiger faced
pansy, it glows. O it's no family tree, Polly's tree, nor
a tree of heaven, though it marry quartz-flake, feather and rose.
It sprang from her pillow whole as a cobweb ribbed like a hand,
a dream tree. Polly's tree wears a valentine arc of tear-pearled
bleeding hearts on its sleeve and, crowning it, one blue larkspur star.
Para las nenas, victimas y porristas igual, que ven el mundo de rosado podrido. Esto, ahora, todo suyos. Busco otro lugar.
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