I realized it has been two weeks since I posted a poem
by e.e.cummings. I have not been reading much as I
have been spending my time being social or working with
the clay(I can't get enough :-) and so I forgot my goal of
posting one a week. I picked this one randomly and I love it :-).
but if a living dance upon dead minds
why, it is love; but at the earliest spear
of sun perfectly should disappear
moon's utmost magic, or stones speak or one
name control more incredible splendor than
our merely universe, love's also there:
and being here imprisoned, tortured here
love everywhere exploding maims and blinds
(but surely does not forget, perish, sleep
cannot be photographed, measured;disdains
the trivial labelling of punctual brains...
-who wields a poem huger than the grave?
from only whom shall time no refuge keep
through all the weird worlds must be opened?
Beautiful moon photo by Geraint Smith. Have a