day 13 – a riddle poem, a description of something without naming it. i’ve copied sylvia plath’s style 9 lines of 9 syllables from her “metaphor” poem… and because spring is running on in, bride’s feet tearing on down the hills, i can’t help myself with the perty pictures…
a small cup, from which you cannot sip,
pages of a book, spine cracking wide,
unfold me but you would not succeed,
a tardis, limitless rooms inside,
inside a golf ball opening up,
folds upon folds of lace, scrunched brocade,
pleats of a skirt, pushed together, tight,
a fist of flat fingers, overlaid,
i am origami reversing.
breathing fire into who we are 