"When the April wind wakes the call for the soil, I hold the plough as my only hold upon the earth, and, as I follow through the fresh and fragrant furrow, I am planted with every foot-step, growing, budding, blooming into a spirit of spring."
- Dallas Lore Sharp, 1870-1929
Haven't written for a while; I've been sinking into depression. Napping, eating out of boredom,
watching "Midsomer Murders" and yearning to get out into the garden.
Finally the temperatures reached 60 degrees and the sun emerged yesterday, so I planted the 10 Dahlia tubers and the 6 Tuberose bulbs and the 1 Blue Hill Meadow Sage plant that I had ordered months ago.
I don't know what will happen to our country. Cannot stand the sight of Donald Trump.
It's National Poetry Month, and I haven't even attempted to write a poem. I don't seem to have anything to say.
Here's a poem, though, from 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?"
- Edna St. Vincent Millay, Spring
Felix Casorati, The Dream
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