a random act of poetry, courtesy of e.e. cummings

(Photo: Michael Howell)
(Photo: Michael Howell)

Lately, my eight-year-old daughter and I have been playing a game on our walks to school. How many different sorts of flowers are blooming right now? Today, we counted 22. Over the weekend, it was only 19. Who knows, maybe tomorrow we’ll see as many as 25. It’s that time of year. Finally.

The principal of my daughter’s school closed a recent email with this poem by e.e. cummings. It seems wildly appropriate, so I thought I’d share it with you.

(Photo: Michael Howell)
(Photo: Michael Howell)

spring is maybe like a hand
(which comes in from nowhere)
and arranges a picture, which people stare at
while people stare, it changes things
very carefully placing new things and moving
old things

very carefully

spring is maybe like a
hand in the picture
(carefully moving new and
old things, while
people are looking intently
changing maybe
just a tiny bit of a flower or putting
a bit of air someplace and

without breaking anything.

(Photo: Michael Howell)
(Photo: Michael Howell)

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