But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one’s longevity and the other’s daring.
Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them —
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.
Poem by Sylvia Plath.
Nice one again xxx You should maybe start writing your own now aswell as stories….I think you would do well at it xxx I am now settled into my new attic space, not as posh as The Plough, but still good storage and writing space. My inspiration is the views beyond towards Bosworth Battlefield as you probably know lol. Have had to use a high stool with my drawing board as a desk though. It’s thundering here now, very atmospheric….oops not sure I spelt that right but never mind. lol…keep up the good work
Carol, I never wrote the poem it was by Sylvia Plath, but one of my favourite so wanted to share it 🙂 Thanks for reading! Your attic space sounds lovely. I wish I had a space to call my writing den.