Private Ground First frost, and I walk among the rose-fruit, the marble toes Of the Greek beauties you brought Off Europe's relic heap To sweeten your neck of the New York woods. Soon each white lady will be boarded up Against the cracking climate. All morning, with smoking breath, the handyman Has been draining the goldfish ponds. They collapse like lungs, the escaped water Threading back, filament by filament, to the pure Platonic table where it lives. The baby carp Litter the mud like orangepeel. Eleven weeks, and I know your estate so well I need hardly go out at all. A superhighway seals me off. Trading their poisons, the north and south bound cars Flatten the doped snakes to ribbon. In here, the grasses Unload their griefs on my shoes, The woods creak and ache, and the day forgets itself. I bend over this drained basin where the small fish Flex as the mud freezes. They glitter like eyes, and I collect them all. Morgue of old logs and old images, the lake Opens and shuts, accepting them among its reflections. —Sylvia Plath --

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