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all in a day's work.
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 methough 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"
-ee cummings, 'somewhere I have never travelled gladly beyond'