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.best.poem.ever.
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I bumped this up from 6 to 7 then again to 8. The more I looked at it the more I liked it. Could have ended up with a 9 if voting had gone on any longer.
Oddly compelling. The muted colors and relaxed posture evokes a sensual of comfort, or discomfort for some. The dash of sky offering a bright future, or an escape.
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