peanut butter

somewhere i have never travelled

gladly beyond any experience
your eyes have their silence
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
touching skilfully, mysteriously her first rose

or if your wish be to close me
i and my life will shut very beautifully
but suddenly as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility
whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries
rendering death and forever with each breathing

i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens
only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
nobody, not even the rain,
has such small hands