Questions of life

Most days, I don't like poetry. There is just something about poems that rub me the wrong way, and I don't like most of them. I have, however, fallen in love with a poet. I first met him about four years ago in my english class, and have loved him ever since.

E.E. Cummings.

This is my favorite poem of all time (unless you count the poem about garbage in Where the Sidewalk Ends), and I want to share it with you:

When Serpents Bargain For The Right To Squirm

when serpents bargain for the right to squirm
and the sun strikes to gain a living wage--
when thorns regard their roses with alarm
and rainbows are insured against old age

when every thrush may sing no new moon in
if all screech-owls have not okayed his voice
--and any wave signs on the dotted line
or else the ocean is compelled to close

when the oak begs permission of the birch
to make an acorn--valleys accuse their mountains of having altitude--and march denounces april as a saboteur

then we'll believe in that incredible unanimal mankind (and not until)
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