Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Saying but according to habit.
You didn't just toe me an inch, no-
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.
And I slept like a bent finger.
The first thing I saw was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in dew
Limid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mica-scalded, and unfolded
To pour myself out like 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 lucid as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, an 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.
Written by other-worldly Sylvia Plath
Oh! I utterly adore this poem.