Saturday, February 17

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

e.e. cummings


A friend's husband died very early in the morning on the day after Valentine's Day. He was in a coma from a malignant brain tumor, but I like to think that even in an unconscious state he deliberately held on so that his dear wife Candace and his three young daughters would not have to forevermore associate this day celebrating love, with his death. Of course, I am probably being romantic. His family will always associate the day AFTER Valentine's day with their tragic loss. But maybe, surely, that is a little better? Anyway, here's to you Bob York!

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