here's to opening and upward

here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and

let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up with joy;and up
with laughing and drunkenness)

here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon

-- e. e. cummings

Found this poem a few days ago -- gives me goosebumps. It's my new mantra in life. To hell with all reason, obligation, and fear. Love the randomness of life. Love the way small insignificant things give us tingles of awe and wonder. Sad thing is, I thought I had found someone "whose eyes smell of the sound of rain," but he turned out to be someone very different. So, opening and upward I go through this disillusionment.