They say no trees touch the sky
but my feet scrape as I walk
slowly
starting to understand my place
in the order of things
The sky
regularly celebrates itself
with showy flashes as should I
but they don’t last
that is the definition of sunset
Those trees
are firmly rooted here
no one has to tell me
they thrive despite neglect
and even outright hostility
As a girl
I was told to pick up my feet
when I walked
but the sky makes its own rules
and no one tells trees what to do
Which is all fine and good
except I know
what happens to trees
when we humans assert our place
in the order of things
Still the sun
will rise and set tomorrow
in flames or mostly unnoticed
my feet
a bellwether for what’s to come
Sylvia Plath would have been 87 years old today.
