mercredi 29 juin 2011

Summer grows old

 Chloé & Gris-Gris




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.
The fen sickens. 

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


Sylvia Plath 









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