Maybe more snow tomorrow and a low of eleven. We wear our layers and heavy coats and attitudes of resignation.
The sun shrugs and keeps climbing higher.
What have we learned, this interminable winter, when we had nothing but time and pixels to amuse us? In short, not much. Last week's lesson in failure exposed some weaknesses. Today in a daydream we took an imaginary journey into an unpublished book, and came up embarrassingly short; even as the snow melt reveals the battered bones of the landscape out our windows, the longer, less-slant light of spring exposes all kinds of literary weaknesses, too. The wan light of winter fooled us into an unearned confidence, blanketed beauty; this week, the sharper rays of the late-March sun erodes the guise and stuns us with reality.
There's not much we can do about a recalcitrant spring, except wait and hope. The other lessons we can make good on.
|APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding|
|Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing|
|Memory and desire, stirring|
|Dull roots with spring rain.|
|Winter kept us warm, covering||5|
|Earth in forgetful snow, feeding|
|A little life with dried tubers....|
Leaving us wondering,