Oh, dear sweet one.
If you ever
feel
beneath the glass
I could only ask of you
your promise
to
hold fast.
It is not the tree
and withered
figs
your blossom-body, chaste,
that sets aside
a destiny
and
fits you with a mask.
I am not Buddy,
Gordon, Irwin,
Demons
in your past.
I'll wait till Spring
to call for them
Ms. Greenwood
and Ms. Plath.