Ariel

With apologies to Sylvia Plath

That her eyes might turn on me, I bow my head

For hers are most beloved and therefore most beautiful and just.

That she might cast a darling smile in my unworthy direction, I bite my lip

For hers are most glorious of all cherry-lipped goddesses.

(Or so was told?)

She walks with a grace attained by no other, and seems to dance with

A light, airy manner, as if treading carefully through a pool of water with every step.

She is the quality of so many women whom so many women envy beyond compare

And the joy to behold, at least in person, is fit for none but bright-cheeked cherubs"

And horned heathens such as myself, I suppose.

Yet the only stories told of Majestic Miss Ariel are of her beauty, her grace,

Which is a wonder to the curious thinker:

Has she nothing above that, the jealousy of lesser women and the eye of

Superior men, the baubles and trinkets of lovers and family past?

Has she nothing of notability but the fact that she ought to be notable?

But it appears she cares not, for she walks on, head high and shoulders in

Perfect arc, a radiant smile glow'd to all those whose doffed caps will allow,

Till the day she dies, Ariel.

And she walks on, till the day she dies.

Author's Note

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