Beginnings

It's 46 degrees outside.  At last a sign that spring may come, so I am cleaning.  Rummaging through a box of old letters this morning, I found the card that I gave my husband on the day he

defended his dissertation.  It's dated almost exactly eight years ago to the day (plus one week). On the front is this photograph of Paris (sadly, there is no mention of who took it), and inside I'd scribbled a 1960 e.e. cummings poem that seems just right for today, too, since this, like every day, is the beginning of a new journey.

what is

a 

voyage

?

up

upup: go

ing

downdowndown

com;ing won

der

ful sun

moon stars the all,& a

(big

ger than

big

gest could even

begin to be) dream

of; a thing: of

a creature who's

O

cean

(everywhere

nothing

but light and dark; but

never forever

& when) un

til one strict

here of amazing most

now, with what

thousands of (hundreds

of ) millions of

Cries Which Are Wings