Marilyn Hacker’s lament about a dreary April in upstate New York mirrors the experience of many in this stay-at-home world we inhabit these days. It’s going to be a rainy weekend here in Indiana if the weather forecast proves accurate, so this may just be the perfect poem for today.
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April Interval IV
By Marilyn Hacker
There was no spring in Saratoga Springs.
I’ve spent a month under relentless rain,
uncomforted as I have ever been
though not in jail, love, anguish, debt, or pain.
No deft phrases or well-proportioned lines
relieve the repetitions of routine.
Sodden, the leaflings spoil. Only the pines
are green. My solace has been buying things:
a white duck jacket, insulated boots,
three patchwork quilts dead countrywomen pieced.
It snowed last week, then thawed. A few released
yellow and purple crocuses uplifted
between shade trees on lawns. The wet wind shifted
and rain battered them back against the roots.