The air here stinks with raunchy, hot freshness
in our high, dry forest of fir and pine.
For cumulus clouds we have mottled tufts
of shadow and our water would burn fast
into vapor if only we’d brought some.
The polychrome riot of lands where you dwelt
visits these hills in a lesser palette,
a high earthen rainbow of browns.
Here the freeze babies may jog forever,
Padding alongside their heavy-heeled men.
They give no thought to chill. No meals to finish here. The joggers sip thin wind.
Here once a year we make peace, the old lovers,
here, only now, mostly safe from each other.
Hmm, I guess not all modern English verse is like Sugar-Free Metamucil.
“Spring,” (Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892-1950)
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
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.