It's time.

I couldn't sleep last night. I felt too sick. So instead, I sat in the living room and looked through my friends' blogs. I was astounded and inspired by the depth of the creativity of their lives and delighted by their posts, and thought perhaps I'd give it a go (I've been meaning to jump on this bandwagon for some time and now). And to begin, in the way-too-early morning hours of Saturday, I give you the poem this blog's title references, by e.e. cummings--one of my absolute favorite writers.

here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and

let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)

here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon