By Lucille Clifton
My Mama moved among the days
like a dreamwalker in a field;
seemed like what she touched was here
seemed like what touched her couldn't hold,
she got us almost through the high grass
then seemed like she turned around and ran
right back in
right back on in
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Spring
By Edna St. Vincent Millay
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.
3 comments:
Thanks for sharing this, Marion. I haven't thought about Lucille Clifton in quite awhile.
wow. april.
it is an unforgiving poem.
james and i talk about volcanoes and wars this morning. i feel too far from love and nurturing, but here it is; here we are. and too often there seems little answer.
in the end all that can be said for sure is - here we are... and so the need to celebrate this despite all else. i think of the jack gilbert poem, "a brief for the defense."))
Wonderful choices here.
Thanks for coming by to visit. We have had a rather wet spring too. Every thing is growing.
Have a blessed evening.
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