On Easter, after a movie with Jenny and a week of bronchitis, I opened to a random poem in an E. E. Cummings book. It was a sonnet attributed to death or resurrection, or perhaps Spring. As usual he, (E. E.), used no caps in his syntax, or punctuational innovations. Just free spirit, listing and fantasy. After poems and antibiotics I was joyous, over the fever breathing freely again, drawing in celebration.
