Poetry

 A man I know hews space

from trees. Hauls himself up there, days,

Why did it fascinate me so much,
that ditch my father had dug
in the front lawn to fix
a faulty pipe? I couldn't keep

Where there were only dirt and needles,
I laid a floor of hardwood and shellac.
I plaited walls into the forest.

The woman next to me was astonishing in her stillness. She appeared perfectly composed, quiet, almost fixed in her concentration. She was softly pretty, her camel's hair coat slung over the back of her chair and a pile of books in front of her. Her notebook was open, her pencil poised. Everything seemed neat. This was Sylvia Plath.