from the Queen's garden at Sandringham Castle
I recently added a complete volume of e.e. cummings poems to my desk. When I need a moment of tranquility I crack it open. Here's a piece of this morning's study. I like it because it reminds me of a toast. We could all use a toast on Monday morning.
here's to opening and upward
here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap and to your(in my arms flowering so new) self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to a disappearing poet of always,snow and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid down with ought with because with every brain which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness) here's to one undiscoverable guess of whose mad skill each world of blood is made (whose fatal songs are moving in the moon