Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.

It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it colony

I think it is part of my heart. But it -flickers.

Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,

Searching my reaches for what she really is.

Then she turns to those liars, the candle and. the moon.

I see her back, reflect it faithfully.

She rewards me with tears and agitation of hands.

I am important to her. She comes and goes.

Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.

In me she has drowned a young girl and in me an old woman.

Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish. -The Mirror – by Sylvia Plath

Q:

Why are the candle and moon called ‘liars’?

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