April is poetry month, and I find that wholly appropriate, moreso this year than ever before (do I say this every year?). In the region where I live, April is a changeable month, duplicitous almost. It has its warm, promising, lush green days, punctuated with the slate-gray, cold, wet remnants of March. It is exciting; it is a time that cries out for renewed passion; it is forlorn; it is a time that calls for caution. A person with a weather eye learns to manage expectations, to ration his or her hopefulness, to maintain contact with reality while still dreaming of new possibilities.
April is poetry. Continue reading “Here We Are Again”