somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

somewhere i have never traveled, 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


The present moment intrigues me. Does it really exist? When we try to grasp it it’s already gone. It eludes us moment by moment and yet we only live in it. The present moment is a riddle. This poem has been in my head for the last couple of days and I’ve arbitrarily decided that the poem is about the present moment. Anyway, what a beautiful combination of uncapitalised words, and I also love the fact that e. e. cummings doesn’t use capital letters when he writes his name.