yearly, down this hill

I am so out of practice at actually posting original content on the internet that I almost forgot it was April. In my defense, it's been a long day, and a longer month, and an even longer winter. I feel like it cannot possibly be April, because despite today's lovely weather, it will never be spring again. Let's just hope I'm wrong.

So anyway, welcome to National Poetry Month. This the eighth year I have done National Poetry Month here at my (various) journal(s), making National Poetry Month longer-lasting in my life than any romantic relationship I have ever had. This is both awesome and slightly terrifying.

The rules: There will be something approximating a poem a day from today until the end of the month. I am both eclectic and predictable. I try not to repeat poets within the course of the month, and I try not to repeat poems I have posted in previous years, but I definitely do not promise not to break my own rules.

April surprised me, this year, so I think Edna is probably the right place to begin.

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.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950), "Spring" from Second April, 1921.