The Suicide

Yes I put her away. But now life flares up As safe as China in a cup You hear the droppings of her heart. Leaves rustle on the windowpane. Three o’clock turns round again. The man in the moon grows full Of her death while earth awaits beneath To receive her ashes on the wind. Yes, earth owns the wind As I her life Whom I have never seen Nor been with Still within our hearts there lies this communion of all that dies we held in common because without it we become more common than the dust. 2. Clay cannot create her features nor mirror reveal her mouth Photograph not show her form full with self, so put away her picture from the shelf And turn instead to living woman on the couch, decked with flowers as if it were she laid out, and not Sylvia, in the woods. 3. Address to the Woman Tell her that may not rise again she sings still in our breath. Tell her that may not breathe again she moves yet beneath the moon. Tell her that may not weave again her hands are dawns within our eyes. Tell her that may not speak again Her words are warnings in the wood.