Spring
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. |
Like the poem to April.
ReplyDeleteSome poets think it is "the cruelest month," but I think Millay has it right - "an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers."
DeleteThe only babbling and strewing in my upstate New York yard is a Lenten Rose plant that decided to bloom on April 3. Still, it is a promise. And, my bulbs are coming up. Now, if it can only get out of the 40's....
ReplyDeleteWell, the 40s must be regarded as progress after the winter you've had!
Delete