It's the first day of spring.
Indulge me with a few mud-luscious and
puddle-wonderful poems from one of my favorites:
And since there's been some talk (from my lips)
about writing and spelling and love,
let me share with you an example of how it's done.
Again, from mr. cummings.
Boy oh boy, can that guy spell.
I have saved the best for last.
One more, which positively moves my heart.
(And yes: it makes me swoon.)
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
|by E. E. Cummings|
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands