who are you, little i (five or six years old) peering from some high
window, at the gold
of november sunset
(and feeling: that if day has to become night this is a beautiful way)
e.e. cummings
Monday, November 7, 2011
Welcome Wigglers who wandered in by way of All Souls' Procession. You may elect to receive hand-prepared monthly-ish poetryart in the mail (imagine, real mail!) or follow us here. In either case, you have arrived--you are home.