Dear Friends,
First, my apologies for missing two weeks of these “hugs from Maine.” I was away traveling and I must admit that it was great to thaw out a bit.
As ever, the very best part of going away was coming home…to Maine. Having said that, it’s March which means wildly varying temps and weather conditions. We all know that this is the eve of our Mud Season, the one time of year here for which I cannot think of a single person who has much of an appetite.
And then, just this second as I was writing that last sentence, a dear friend stopped by to discuss a little project involving Edna St. Vincent Millay, the great poet who was born in Rockland, just to our south, and who lived in Camden for many years, just north of us.
In one of the remarkable coincidences that seem to regularly occur in my life (thank goodness!), he had a volume of her poetry already opened to show me her poem Spring. Could I have better scripted this happening just as I am musing on this very subject?!?!?
In any event, here’s her darkly wondrous poem set next month with a world of sobering metaphor within…and here’s a link to my story behind my photograph, March.
| Spring 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. |
This was all, for some reason that I haven’t yet grasped, truly meant to happen.
In any event, dear friends, enjoy the slowly-but-surely longer days and don’t forget that your clocks “spring forward” this morning!
all cheers,
Peter
