Sylvia Plath - Poet who died much too young.

I am being haunted by the ghost of Sylvia

Her words surround me in dreams

and coaxes me back to her poetry

            even when I am mind-tired

and haven’t a clue what she is writing about

I wonder if she is talking to me

            this word whisper

so subtle, like a faded photograph

            just grays, transparent ivories

I avoid the pieces

about death and depression

I’ve written enough of my own

and need no assistance from beyond

I see my granite marker

            and it does not beckon

Do I call her to me?

Sylvia? Do you see me reading your poems

            out loud

trying to make sense of what you felt

how it relates to me

            in this modern century

If you visit during slumber

when the owl hoots outside

            from the old walnut tree

bring fresh insight—help me really see

the photograph

behind your words