somewhere i have never travelled
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
e e cummings
3 comments:
that last line of his. my god, it always hits me with the same force, the same echoing beauty of all that brought him there.
James took the words right out of my mouth.
No matter how tired I get of life or poetry, that last line still manages to remind me that both are beautiful and worth loving.
It always hits me that way, too, jim and Laurel.
I wonder if he realized how amazing that line was/is...
when I read it, I want to cup my hands in front of my face or take them and run my fingers though my hair, or bring them to my face and rest them on my cheeks
or close my eyes, extend my arms out in front of me, palms up
thoughts of rain and this line "the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending" and that amazing last line bringing tears at times to those closed eyes,
all the while, my arms extended in front of me, palms up, waiting to be filled...
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