The Couriers

by 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.