Who Are You, Little I

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who are you, little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window;at the gold


of November sunset

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)

~ e. e. cummings

I am a big fan of e.e. cummings and his poetry. This poem is no exception. I love the nostalgic feeling in the words -- I, too, remember looking out my window as a young girl, watching the sun set. And I, too, believe that sunsets are a beautiful way for day to become night. Reading this poem makes my heart happy. :) What do you feel when you read it?