April is the cruelest month, so some poet said,
Likely vexed to the breaking point
By its coquettish nature, alternately promising and withdrawing
Sweetness of the warm sun, rustling green blankets of leaves,
The flirtatious, intoxicating perfume of the violet, the lily of the valley.
For all its coy fluttering of eyelids, April may delay but never denies,
Yielding its lover’s bounty and then some to suitors ardent and otherwise.
Its forerunner of two moons prior promises no such delights,
No flora-and-fauna maidenhood as recompense for devotion;
It is the time of purification, of the purge,
A time where light is at a premium, often coveted but rarely apprehended,
Its fleeting manifestations matters of obfuscation as opposed to illumination,
Soon to be supplanted by fierce meteorological harpies
Short on subtlety but long on effectiveness,
Carrying away those not equipped to resist its peculiar charms
(The too-early runt calf, the aged and nearly-blind collie
Trotting to an unfamiliar field or wood lot,
The newly-solo grandparent acquiescing to the song of the abyss),
The unfortunates consigned to crypts or undisturbed corner of barn or basement
For the time being, proper farewells set aside for some indeterminate time
When it is more feasible to block out the knowledge
That the springtime is promised to no man or beast,
Especially at such a time where so little seems to separate one from the other.