Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, an arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.” ― Sylvia Plath
“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am. I am. I am.” — Sylvia Plath