Mystery

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http://karenmaezenmiller.com/letter-from-my-16-year-old-self/

I’ve been thinking lately about former versions of myself, of how it’s dangerous to assume that children somehow have a more limited experience, when quite often it’s probably the opposite.  


This e.e. cummings poem makes me wish for spring:

i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                       Alive
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                       in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                            Will i complete the mystery
                                            of my flesh
I will rise
               After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

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