Wednesday, May 19, 2010

not even the rain

(found this image here)

There is something poetic about a rainy day. I can't help but feel a deep sense of contentment. I'm sitting here, drinking my latte(which always tastes better on a dreary, dismal day) and listening to a Pandora station that I have crafted quite masterfully. It is the perfect accompaniment to the falling rain and the wind chime that sings gracefully on the back porch. It doesn't matter that today's agenda includes lots of homework, some quality time for my already sore legs and the treadmill, and a busy night waiting tables, because it is raining. And I am happy. And thankful.

This morning I remembered this poem, which I have always loved very much. Fortunately, it is just as beautiful as I remembered. Thank you, e.e. cummings, for gracing the world with this treasure.

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, misteriously) 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 we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour 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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