Friday Poetry

Tell me not that I am too late! Actually, I know I'm not. It's still Friday. On to the poetry.

My favorite e.e. cummings poem.

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)

And the roundup is here.