I didn't realize that I hadn't posted anything so far in April. Let's start with this poem, I guess:
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.
April
April means wind and pollen. It has been windy and pollen-y. It sucks.
We have a dog guest staying with us while his owner is out of town. Yesterday, he bit David's hand. It did break the skin in one place and I tried to get Dave to go to the doctor to have it looked at, but he did not want to go. It's red but not hot or itchy and Dave has been keeping it very clean and icing it to keep the swelling down. If it were me, I would have already had a doctor look at it (and I'm really frustrated bordering on furious that Dave won't go get it checked out). But it's not my hand.
I've not been sleeping. This is not news. But twice since I've last posted, I've had to be up early in the day to attend an online therapy session. I like my new therapist. We'll see how it develops over time.
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