Tonight, I'm drifting. Part of me is travelling through memory into another time, a time well shared, a time both comfortable and new. Running this poem is something like filling a glass to raise in a toast. There are fine times to come. These future events are built upon a past worthy of remembrance. In this knowing, there is joy as warm as a bath at the end of a cold and empty day.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
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 will easily 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
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