here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to
your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of
rain
and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing
poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's beautiful
friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and
let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with
ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to
feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and
drunkenness)
here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each
world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the
moon
~ e.e. cummings
~
(left button to play, right
button to save)