Sylvia Plath
But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf.
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Atracting my share of Ahs and spectecularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-heat not tall, but more startling.
Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and flowers have been strewing their cool odours.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them -
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.
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