April is the cruellest month, says the poet.
But I know that it is March.
March, the month that teases us with warmth,
and has us fools singing its praise --
Then a winter dusting of snow returns,
reminding us that lilacs
don’t really bloom this far north
until well into May.
March, you are an in-between month.
And there is nothing worse
than standing in between the known and the unknown,
waiting for answers,
waiting for strength,
waiting for hope,
waiting for love.
Surely purgatory is worse than hell.
Oh March,
If you are a friend of the cosmos
If you know that there is more than just this
humble existence,
won’t you tell us,
somehow, in the parable of your unpredictability.
And we will strive to counteract
your confoundedness
with gratitude for all that does warm us,
for all who do love us,
for all who wait with us,
holding our hands,
holding us in their thoughts,
as we wait in a place
suspended
somewhere between winter and true spring.
