A DREAM

  

Sylvia Plath yodels at Primrose Hill.

Winter whitening the sky 

                                            her face 

 bundled up with a black cashmere coat

a black velvet skirt.

Her red white-spotted bandana is

 the only burst of sunshine 

                                             so far in the year.

Her aquamarine sweater: the only blue 

she has relished for months.

The yodelling pierces 

some violet clouds. 

A wayward blackbird alights 

on the hood of the stroller 

where little Frieda snoozes. 

"Maybe is my father's soul

Maybe the blackbird only exists

 in the baby's dream"

She yodels and yodels to the dusk

 holding court with a big murder of crows.

Frieda wakes up and chuckles

 and her tiny hands catch 

the last iridescent beam

of Mommy's smile.