Spring

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.

Millay, Edna St. Vincent, and Doren, Carl Van. Second April: The Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay. N.p., Read Books Limited, 2020.

Why I chose this poem

I'm not exactly sure what it is about this one. I often choose poems that align with how I feel or at least how I want to feel. And yet, while it's easy to remember times I might have felt this way about spring, I never have. But I do feel over-the-top brattiness like this about other things.

In 2024, I took the babbling idiot of April, arms full of flowers, with embarrassing readiness.