a cold wind

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“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
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers,”

writes T. S. Eliot in his modernist 1922 poem, “The Waste Land.”

Just when everything outside was springing to life, winter returns. A cold wind blows. The leaf buds go back to sleep; the lilacs say "mañana," the tent caterpillars huddle together in a hairy little mass and dream caterpillar dreams. Can the forecast be true: below freezing tonight? And again tomorrow? This must be dogwood winter. You better throw another quilt on the bed.

If not cruel, April, at the very least, can be egregiously fickle, a jokester.

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