I don't have a whole lot to relate today -- though my life is interesting and ever changing of late.
So in the place of real blather, I'll post one of my favorite poems with my favorite line of all time.
Anybody who stops in should guess what my favorite line is.
E.E. Cummings
somewhere i have never travelled
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
For more (and I'd recommend it, really, there are may better poems here, but only a few in total) go here.
So in the place of real blather, I'll post one of my favorite poems with my favorite line of all time.
Anybody who stops in should guess what my favorite line is.
E.E. Cummings
somewhere i have never travelled
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
For more (and I'd recommend it, really, there are may better poems here, but only a few in total) go here.
VIEW 7 of 7 COMMENTS
annalee:
Id love to see those baby owls! Thats such a funny image, they must look so cute. All baby birds look so strange. I like the fact that chinese painted quails are feathered and can see as soon as they hatch! 
noir:
It wasn't the hands thing that I liked, I was just commenting on it. My favorite part was what is in the parenthesis. The hands part just happened to be tacked on to it, so I included it as well. 