Shakespearian Sonnet:

Response to Sylvia's “The Moon and the Yew Tree”

Time, I do not know its dreaming weight,

Under Plath's Yew Tree quietly I weep,

The universe: thoughts of love and hate,

While gothic minds curl, spew and sleep.

Face, my face, gray with dream and bone,

Holy, Holy bound up, completely dark.

Graveyard, that sleep and head carved stone,

Steals my voice, your shadow hit its mark.

Staring, Staring at that autumn moon,

Which you thought so cruel and so pale,

But I tell you that its fine wrought lune

Is but the tail of a child's tale.

Did your mind's silence grow the yew

That cut your life, suffocated you?