most this amazing day

For a week or so recently, I woke to the first stantza of this poem by e.e. cummings in my head. 


i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

The tone and mystical grammar of cummings mirrors how I feel about our summer in Wisconsin now. It is a beautiful, sweet, and fleeting time. The garden is in, boats are out on the lake, it's as warm as it's getting here, and I get to work in the studio on prints and drawings without interruption. Not to mention the sweet "human merely being" we anticipate meeting in the fall. 

i thank You God for most this amazing day