I've just finished reading 73 poems by e.e.cummings, a collection of, well 73 of his poems. Some of his most pared down poems are irritating and can seem pointless but at its best his poetry is like a fine mind altering drug that makes you see language and reality in different ways. (Not that I use mind altering drugs!). This is a collection that in part overflows with the joy of Spring, as demonstrated by this snippet from poem 63:
with me now
sing)for it's Spring
and in earth sky trees
where a miracle arrives
A wonderful shout of joy for the season that seems not to be able to arrive quite properly this year. Reading this collection, I was also struck that some of the weirdness of cummings' writing may be due to him internalising and using the rhythms of other languages, there are certainly passages that made more sense to me if I imagined they were in German. But anyway, a wonderful read if you don't mind working a little.