Sylvia Plath

a poem of growth

As contained as the sky
and as limitless as a box.
She wanted the world.
Stubby fingers grasped for toys,
not opportunities.
She cared not for effort,
or anything but her softness.

              Her tendency to grow.
              Overwhelmed with desire.
              Incredulous joy at the sound
              of her voice.
              Unimaginable glee at the sight
              of her stride.

                            All gaiety is in her warm cheek,
                            her gentle hair and small hands.
                            Everything masterful...intriguing.
                            She is art...she is beauty.
                            None match her passion.

                                          Complexity and diversion.
                                          Creative fire is her backbone.
                                          With ceaseless constancy she writes.

                                                      She transcribes thoughts of dejection
                                                      Her sorrow overwhelms her passion
                       
                                                            Her death a loss to the whole of the world.