April is National Poetry month. Ironically enough, the first quote about April that springs eagerly to mind comes from The Waste Land. Grumpy old T.S. Eliot proclaiming "April is the cruellest month."
Kind or cruel, I'm not here to argue the facts; however; isn't it enough truth –– the simple fact of Aprillity?
T.S. goes on to say why April is the cruelest month: "breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain."
It's got the virtue of being short to balance against its general gloom and the inherent math problem of "threescore and ten."
For those of us who don't calculate in base score, "threescore and ten" means 70, the average span of human life.
I've over-ordered spring plantings, I've pack-ratted a mound of supplies, and as soon as I manage my second vaccination shot, we are heading to the Would-Be Farm.
Because it's April. Already!