> CD #70: Spring
It’s been raining this week, so I pulled out my old rubber boots—which just might be the oldest items I own because they were the footwear closest to the door as we quickly left our burning house ten years ago.
Only problem is my boots are a bit leaky, and I keep meaning to do something about it. There aren’t any visible cracks in the rubber, but moisture is somehow seeping in anyway, and I imagine applying some Shoe Goo over the seams would do the trick.
Only problem is I’ve had this plan for about three years, but still haven’t done anything about it. It would be so much easier to buy a new pair of rain boots, especially since these are quite shabby and stained.
Only problem is I’m steeped in the DIY ethos—a consequence of both my personality and my upbringing (immigrant parents + too many episodes of Martha Stewart Living)—and I can’t allow myself buy something when I could hack a solution with my own hands.
Only problem is I keep forgetting that I even need a solution until a certain week in May each year, during which I’m invariably swamped, and by the time I have the time and energy to deal with them, the boots are already back in the closet.
Ah, spring rituals.
On that note, I want to share with you my favourite spring poem. (I know it’s no longer April, but spring comes a full month later where I live.)
Spring
by Edna St. Vincent MillayTo 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.
:) Teresa
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A+ poem.