“my darling since
you and
i are thoroughly haunted by
what neither is any
echo of dream nor
any flowering of any
echo(but the echo
of the flower of
Dreaming)somewhere behind us
always trying(or sometimes trying under
us)to is it
find somehow(but O gracefully)a
we, entirely whose least
breathing may surprise
ourselves
—let’s then
despise what is not courage my
darling(for only Nobody knows
where truth grows why
birds fly and
especially who the moon is.” —
you and
i are thoroughly haunted by
what neither is any
echo of dream nor
any flowering of any
echo(but the echo
of the flower of
Dreaming)somewhere behind us
always trying(or sometimes trying under
us)to is it
find somehow(but O gracefully)a
we, entirely whose least
breathing may surprise
ourselves
—let’s then
despise what is not courage my
darling(for only Nobody knows
where truth grows why
birds fly and
especially who the moon is.” —
E E Cummings
(I found a beautifully bound collection of EEC’s poetry (like, ALL OF IT) on the street yesterday. the book opened to this poem. the afternoon light hit it just right— it hits my heart just right)
