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Love Letter

 Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it, Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just tow me an inch, no-- Nor leave me to set my small bald eye Skyward again, without hope, of course, Of apprehending blueness, or stars.
That wasn't it.
I slept, say: a snake Masked among black rocks as a black rock In the white hiatus of winter-- Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure In the million perfectly-chisled Cheeks alighting each moment to melt My cheeks of basalt.
They turned to tears, Angels weeping over dull natures, But didn't convince me.
Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.
And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer air And the locked drops rising in dew Limpid as spirits.
Many stones lay Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded To pour myself out like a fluid Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled.
I knew you at once.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig: An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god Floating through the air in my soul-shift Pure as a pane of ice.
It's a gift.

Poem by Sylvia Plath
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