Poem of the Day

Today, I got up on time, and so I did not have psychotic dreams
about rapists and kidnappings like I have had the past few days
where I have slept in until 12 or 1.  Yay, reading days, you have no point.

Walking to church in so much slush = more difficult than walking to church
in the snow.  Today I went to temple prep which engaged persons are supposed
to go to, but there was only one engaged couple and like five prospective
missionaries, and everyone else was just
there because they didn't want to go to Sunday School
because spoilars, it is boring.

List of things I saw yesterday:
a bird outside my window in the pine tree
a pretty picture of a lighthouse
a girl totally biff it right outside the HBLL.  She slid in the snow
and landed on her knees and faceplanted.  Bummer.

List of things I heard yesterday:
a conversation in the library about what the abbreviation "FEC"
in a text meant.  The conclusion reached: "Future Eternal Companion.'
inhuman sounds issuing from a study room on the fifth floor.
The culprits: freshmen watching a movie.
a song about the Berlin Wall

Pablo Neruda writes lovely love poems, but so does ee cummings,
who I love with my whole entire soul.  Also, this poem briefly mentions snow,
which I hope we will start getting instead of this gross grey slushy stuff.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
by ee cummings

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