To what purpose, April, do you return again?
—Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Spring”
For one purpose, April, do you return again.
Prose is not enough.
It can no longer quiet me with the flatness
Of countless pages turning steadily.
I write what I write.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The rhythms emerging.
The sound of the wind is rhymed.
It is apparent that all is life.
But what does that signify?
Not only in the heavens are the minds of men
Inspired by muses.
Desire in itself
An empty cup, a sheet of unmarked paper.
It is enough that yearly, down this hill,
Come like an idiot, babbling and strewing poems.