this is the garden

i came across a couple of e.e. cummings poems yesterday morning while digging through some boxes of books. the first . . . “this is the garden” . . . seems timely in its literal connection to the changing state of gardens in the northern hemisphere as the sun casts less heat and leaves the sky earlier each day. allow yourself to leave the literal for the time it takes to read these words. settle inside the images and allow them to reform in your self as a pure insight.

this is the garden

this is the garden: colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night’s outer wing
strong, silent greens serenely lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
this is the garden: pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.
e.e. cummings

cummings was one of those few and far between writers who managed to effortlessly bridge the space that exists between the avant garde of the time and popular accessibility. his form and content while obviously distinct, somehow inform each other and draw the reader to consider the import of each word and image.
my english readers might be astonished to note that the image below was taken in stretford, manchester!

here’s the source for the image if you’d like to see more:
http://www.chorleygardeningsociety.co.uk/8701.html?*session*id*key*=*session*id*val*

here’s another poem by cummings just for the sheer joy of allowing myself to be transported away from the reality of a monday morning - awwwww it’s not that bad actually!

i thank You God for most this amazing

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a true blue dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginably You?

(now the ears of my eyes awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
e.e. cummings

enjoy this gift of a poem inside the gift of another day on this earth with you.