April Is…
As sayings go, I don’t think April is the cruelest month as much as I think it fickle. The indecision of committing to either a rainy day or a sunny one is a tad frustrating.
Rain is lovely in many ways—giving life to the winter weary garden for one, instilling a domicile coziness, and the ion freshness, that petrichor essence.
Alas, too much of a good thing happens after the third day of drenching, not trickling showers. My newly planted bulb garden is now a swamp. The sink backs up due to the overfilled septic field. Coziness has become house damp.
In a teasing reprieve April will suddenly decide to gift us some sun and all is well. Except for those days of sporadic the rain and sun combo. Taking a walk requires extra thought, such as packing an umbrella, just in case. Tending to those fresh weeds that feed upon rain-infused-with-warmth days initiates fortitude, that determination of whether to stick out the few raindrops and hope the sun comes back out.
But April is more than fickle weather. It’s Easter, that joyful recognition of resurrection. It’s assurance winter is receding (never mind those hiccups of occasional snowflakes). It’s poetry month. Shakespeare’s birthday. And it’s Library Appreciation Month.
So-
While April is not my favorite month, I do recognize it is fairly special. In tribute to all the happenings in April here are a few poetical offerings that capture the varied essence of this month.
Dedicated to libraries, librarians, and library workers :
There is no Frigate like a Book (1286)
By Emily Dickinson
There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human Soul –
Dedicated to poets and poems with a nod to April, with a nod that rain isn’t that bad after all:
An April Rain Song (1921)
Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night.
And I love the rain.
Ah, yes–Shakespeare, who celebrates his birthday on April 23, recognizes the melancholy of April’s spring:
Sonnet 98
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud pied April dress’d in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
by Helen Steiner Rice
God, give us eyes to see
the beauty of the Spring,
And to behold Your majesty
in every living thing.
And may we see in lacy leaves
and every budding flower
The Hand that rules the universe
with gentleness and power.
And may this Easter grandeur
that Spring lavishly imparts
Awaken faded flowers of faith
Luing dormant in our hearts.
And give us ears to hear, dear God
the Springtime song of birds
With messages more meaningful
than man’s often empty words.
Telling harried human beings
who are lost in dark despair
‘Be like us and do not worry
for God has you in his care.
Pam Webb 