Only something in me understands

I feel like I have lots to say but I'm just not sure how to say it. I've been housesitting since Sunday, living a strange alternate life much closer to the city with a little dog for company. Somehow I don't feel like myself but then again, I feel much more content than I have for a while. I've even been walking around with no red lipstick on; I really don't know what that means, but my cracked lips have been thanking me. 


The main idea for this week was to write some new music, but I've found the days slipping in and out and away from me very quickly, what with walking dogs and rehearsals with unimates and bandmates and friends coming and going and me (Nonna Gilligan) cooking up several vats of pasta for the incoming and outgoing. But I figure it's all relative; my friends are in and out, and I'm supposed to piece together new work from whatever fun and niceties they leave with me. The Beatles, Woody Allen, Leggo's pasta sauce, Cleo magazine, polaroids. There's songs in there somewhere. 


I'm really happy, actually. It's been ages since I've been forgetful and silly but I have been, for the past couple of days. I locked myself out of the house twice, and climbing the back fence for the second time in my huge Mexicano skirt, I wondered why it is that I'm suddenly not concerned by scrambling over fences twice my height in the pouring rain, with elderly neighbours sighing from their warm insides. 


My hyper little heart pounds faster these days but the difference is that now, I don't think it's always frightened.  

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands