For Sylvia Plath

My feet made large prints in the snow
and above the boughs were cast in heavy
strands of white, absurdly bright white.
The sky above was a charcoal color,
cold, unforgiving, stern if you will.


The wind snarled at my face
and cut at my eye lids with
sharp fangs and I believe
that the wind is really the wolves
and the wolves are really the wind.
I believe I am being surrounded
here in the clearing between
the fir trees glazed with snow.


But I do not stop for death-
I think of you on the linoleum floor
and the air heavy with wavy lines of gas.


I believe I am being surrounded
by those ashen backed canines 
or at least I would assume
that they watch me with eyes
jade and iridescent, and fangs
trenchant and yellow.


I think of you there spread out on tiles
while the windows are held
in a synthesis of glass and frost
and the wolves surround you as they do I.