the voice of her eyes
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 enclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring
opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your with 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
