Poetry Sunday: Spring
April is here at last. Season of new beginnings and of flowers. And even in the northern regions, spring is finally creeping over the windowsill. Here, it is in full flower already.
To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
|April strews its flowers, a "volunteer" reseeded petunia in an old tub.|