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 the 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.
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4 comments:
Wow, that is pretty dark writing for such a beautiful thing as spring.
I love to see the new growth peeking out of the bare earth, to see the trees and rose bushes swell with buds. I love to stand in the window when the sun is shining and feel the new warmth which warms my bones that have been so cold over the winter. It gives me hope and mentally helps me go another day.
KK you just took the words out of my mouth and said it all.
The poem is so beautiful and I loved it.
Fan-fricking-tastic!
Beauty and horror are inextricably tied, like life and death.
Great pic, too. Thanks, Sylvia.
I likes it......
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