Yes, I know that’s not the way e.e. cummings wrote the line in the first stanza of anyone lived in a pretty how town. But that’s the way it popped into my head sometime in the greenhouse hours between 3 and 5 this morning.
My pre-dawn editing, changing “he sang his didn’t he danced his did” to “she sang his didn’t he danced her did” is actually easy to puzzle out.
Check out the photo below:
The young woman is our granddaughter, Andie. The occasion was brunch at our home this past Sunday in a room we call the library bar. Lots of books and a round table for four, just right for good talk. Now, look over Andie’s shoulder to the bookshelves. On the second shelf from the top, a salmon-colored book with a black band near the top is Complete Poems: 1913-1962 by e.e.cummings. That sets the stage.
That evening, when Buck and I had closed our books, we turned out the light and talked until one of fell asleep like we always do. We had a tender conversation about how the sweetest fruit of a long, happy marriage is to grow old together and still have so much to say to one another, so much to share, so much love to express.
So, when I came wide awake with “she sang his didn’t he danced her did,” it made perfect sense. Still does. And it’s in my head now, more melody than poem.