April Redux

To what purpose, April, do you return again?

Beauty is not enough.

You can no longer quiet me with the redness

Of little leaves opning 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.

Is is not enough that yearly, down this hill,

April

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Spring, by Edna St. Vincent Millay 

We thought that the Gerberas were dead.  In the past, they could not survive the winter cold.  Yesterday afternoon, to our delight, we discovered that all three of our potted pink Gerberas were rising proudly from the dead leaves of last fall's frost. This poem came to mind, but from a new perspective.  Certainly, life is not nothing.

I remember reading this poem in February, 1971, under very different circumstances.   A childhood friend of mine had been found dead in her college dorm after having ingested a lethal dose of Tuinals, a popular barbiturate of the day.  At the time, I was thrown into a deep thrashing depression.  However, I do remember saying to myself, "She doesn't have any more chances".  Always best to try to concentrate on the return of April and her burgeoning blooms.