Spring -- 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.
April is an Idiot indeed, breeding lilacs and etc. And you're right, Edna, sticky beauty -- flowering trees preparing to turn riot and daffodils popping their bulbs underground -- it's not nearly enough to distract us from hordes of maggot-brained men and their empty cups of impotent (they say important) bluster. Why, even today, we again dragged our sorry asses to the polls, cast votes (stones) against their endless campaigns to confine us in their pumpkin shells (because there they vow they will keep us, very well), these womb-stealing citizens of the fall, these leafless November mother- fuckers.
Suggested soundtrack: Aretha Franklin, “R-E-S-P-E-C-T”
