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 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
-- e. e. cummings
There once was a girl who wore a superhero cape. It wasn't a fancy cape. A hodgepodge of florals and stripes, bold and tame. Fashi...
Only once have I outright written anything about infertility. A few years ago, a friend of mine asked me if my five-year experience with i...
My child collects silk flower petals Carries them in his small chubby hands Places them in my palms And gasps as he watches me blow them ...
I was six years-old the first time I was called "fat" on the playground. Technically, it was "hamburger," but I've n...