April

If you’ve been around long enough you know that Edna St. Vincent Millay is my homegirl. She’s no Joan Didion, but that’s a different genre. Edna, like Momma Joan, has been around since high school. We first met in a drama class my sophomore year. We had to recite a poem in front of the whole class, and well, I thumbed my finger through a poetry book and found the shortest one I could: My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends — it gives a lovely light! I was such a wanker. But Edna didn’t mind. She didn’t mind when that poor, underpaid adjunct at KU made me “explore the rich tapestry of the sonnet,” or when my evil grad school professor said, “close reading”. Every time I found my way back to Edna, and every time she welcomed me with open arms. In short, she’s my ride-or-die. Which makes each season of life a bit different because, well, Edna was a bit different. Here’s the one that has been sloshing around the old noggin for the last few weeks:

Feel free to do you own close reading of this one. Or just read it over and over again, listening to the lullaby of the words. Appreciate the rhythm, the feeling. Or you know, shake your head and say, “Oh Edna…”

I’m not sure about April anymore either, you guys. I’m not sure about the rebirth of spring, or the way that we pin so much hope on a fresh start, but I did find out that one of my own poems will be in a book of poetry this year, and I am excited and so very surprised. I’ve grown a lot from the last April to this one. A lot. Maybe this time of year will grow on me now too.

Go forth in flowers and poetry today, y’all.

M.

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