not even the rain has such small hands

If I were to take on this challenge I would choose the e.e. cummings poem that has been with me in days filled with Montreal music, to cozy Toronto evenings all the way to cold and rainy Danish days of longing and uncertainty. The poem seems to follow me, gently and softly a few steps behind, calming me, reassuring me of the strength and stability that is enclosed not from some outside source, but rather found within. 

Thanks Joanna for these great challenges!

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