Tis a dark and rainy morning here in the woods. No blooming flowers yet, but the bright wolf lichen burns florescent on damp fir bark. The air smells good--that freshest of ozone storm scents. Things are waking up. The gigantic snow pile outside my window is shrinking slowly, slowly. I am thinking of how schizophrenic early spring weather can be, how often it matches my own moods, caught between transitions, stretching toward a new season while one hand still lingers behind, fingers brushing against the old. And all of this, of course, makes me think of Edna St. Vincent Millay, that badass American poetess famous for her feminism, scandalous love affairs, and Pulitzer.
Here is what she has to say about April...
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
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.