For coronals of sugar roses, from The Collected Poems, by Sylvia Plath.
from The Beekeeper’s Daughter / by Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)
Trumpet-throats open to the beaks of birds.
The Golden Rain Tree drips its powders down.
In these little boudoirs streaked with orange and red
The anthers nod their heads, potent as kings
To father dynasties. The air is rich.
Here is a queenship no mother can contest —
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from lined paper, to Royal, to Smith Corona, to floppy disk, to 1TB hard drive...it's all a result of the passing wind.
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Daily Poetry Fragments {Semi-Daily} 