Poetry is life, or life is poetry.

In December. Time moves fitfully and yes, there is still poetry. For those who find they cannot write because Creativity has other places it visits at Christmas time, there is still, thankfully, all the millions of verses that bring pleasure to the senses. Were it writ, or were it read, the poems and their beloved lines comfort. Time to revisit the poems that for years and years have sounded their beautiful swells.

e.e. cummings, one of her perennial favorites, gives us this gorgeous offering:

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