What Would Cummings Do?

The sun is going down on the streets of Green Bay, and I'm sipping on cinnamon-infused coffee. Savoring spices seems wrong when I have had so little hope in the past weeks. I reach for my poetry books and come up with an ee cummings collection.
If cummings were here, what would he do? Would he let the sun fall without dancing in it's delightful warmth, sucking the last few ounces of indian summer for its light? The leaves on the tree directly facing my window have all fallen. They are now dead and brown on the grass and in the street, crunching along the cement. Would cummings think this a positive or negative attribution of their life? When the leaves die, do we die as well? Would he assume his own death in the changing of the seasons? I don't know. But I wish I could ask him.
Cummings has forever been my touch stone. When I hear his words echo through my empty apartment, I am comforted and soothed. A man I once thought I loved called me his ee cummings' girl, but even with the deadliest pain scarring my heart from our ending, I still feel that I am the world's ee cummings' girl, hidden skillfully behind coffee and cigarettes.
I love the words I cannot comprehend. I do not need to understand words to know that I love them. So why on earth did I feel like I needed to understand matters of my heart to love myself? Would cummings have regretted his life if words did not exist in it? I know I would.
Another man I thought I cared for deeply once made me feel like writing was not important. He wouldn't read my writing, he pointed his angry fingers at my poetry when things were crumbling between us, and for that I will never forgive him. I may forgive many things and continue to move on, but that one moment changed how I felt about him forever. Would cummings have ever pined for someone who made his writing seem insignificant? I seriously, seriously doubt it, and neither will I.
I've been failed by many people, felt loss and pain from many people, but my words have never abandoned me, and for that I will not die with the leaves. I will patiently wait for spring, knowing that beneath all death is some new birth awaiting our gleeful eyes.
“--fear buries a tomorrow under woe / and up comes yesterday most green and young”