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 skillfully, 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 compells 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.
- E. E. Cummings
