Here We Are Again

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

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