April, don't be cruel.

"April is the cruelest month, T.S. Eliot wrote, by which I think he meant (amongst other things) that springtime makes people crazy. We expect too much, the world burgeons with promises it can't keep, all passion is really a setup, and we're doomed to get our hearts broken yet again. I agree, and would further add: Who cares? Every spring I go there anyways, around the bend, unconditionally.*"

I, too, go around the bend unconditionally at the beginning of every spring. Blankets become picnic places, lawn coverings, places for basking in the sun. Flowers tempt me to lie down amongst their fragrant blossoms, to disregard meetings and obligations. Everything about spring makes me crazy; it adds a sort of hazy covering to my life, a constant awareness of the environment around me. I want to plant flowers, eat vegetables as soon as they stick their feathery heads above the soil, and dance around the proverbial May pole (or the real one, in my case).

Mr. T.S. Eliot, I disagree. April is amongst my favorite months, second only to October. That's me: lover of the bookend months of the year.

* Barbara Kingsolver, in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle