I read these lines of this verse when I was a child:
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
of the poem, “somewhere i have never travelled” by (Edward Estlin) e.e. cummings—and I fell in love with language.
I knew then, that the stuff of poems were inside me and I would be forever compelled to ink them onto a page.
It is not merely a hope, nor ambition to compile them into a book, but a compulsion to get them out.
Out of me, into a collection.
A published one.
To poets and the words they love: the tangible, the delectable—
(c) Zara Alexis D. Garcia-Alvarez