Thursday, July 19, 2012

Frog Autumn

Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only
Croak and wither.

Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us.
he fen sickens.

Frost drops even the spider. Clearly
The genius of plenitude
Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin

Sylvia Plath

Image by sparth.


Anonymous said...

Wow. Hardly Keats' 'season of mellow fruitfulness.' Beautiful, though dark.