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