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
(1894 – 1962)

© Henri Senders – Papendrecht, the Netherlands – April 2015
other hands: Ayla

About Rebecca Tun

According to me, I like lists. View all posts by Rebecca Tun

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