who are you, little i

who are you, little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window; at the gold

of november sunset

(and feeling: that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)

e.e. cummings


1 comment:

  1. i love this poem, it has such a powerful and uncontrived innocence - exactly what i need these days, this simplicity of gaze, the ability to sit quietly and say: this is a beautiful way...