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.
~Edna St. Vincent Millay “Spring”
I know that we cannot depend on the return of Spring to heal us~
it is balm not cure.
I know that none of its beauty can bloom without it dying before~
it is a shroud thrown over to cover our decay.
I know I cannot be transformed by the warmth of the sun~
it is not enough for my skin to sweat when my heart lies still and cold.
I know I must dig deeper in holy ground for the truth~
it does not lie in perfumed blossoms and sweet blue skies.
I know what I know~
life in itself is nothing unless
death is overcome yet again
and our hearts, once broken,
begin to pulse red once more.