'Cause April is the poetic-est month... or something

I have fled from Bryn Mawr and all its insanity, academic and otherwise, and am firmly ensconced at home. There was salad and cold chicken and CSI with Mom. And seeing my cats (trust me, the scar from Pete will last me a while, I'll just go with seeing for a bit, thanks). And the promise of the full-size bed to sleep in, instead of an extra-long twin. Yay. But because April is poetry month, I will end with what is probably my most favorite poem. If you've seen it before, my apologies. If not, go read more.

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 will easily 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
--e.e. cummings