Thomas Stearns Was Wrong

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.

Thomas Stearns was wrong.  April isn’t the cruelest month; that disgrace goes to October, to the aptly named fall.

April’s gusts blow away the remnants of the gloom that lay over the earth, taking me by the hand, and dancing me into the warmth and color and vibrancy of the longer days of May.  April is rebirth, gentle green sprigs, joy at once again coming forth from the darkness to the vitality of the new day.

October days noticeably shorten, nudging me further under the blankets, its gusts breaking the leaves from their twigs leaving the world bare.  October deceives, with each day shorter and colder than the day before, but still with the warmth of the midday sun.  October is the inevitable diminishment into the fortress of winter in which all loss is encapsulated.

My friend Matilda would disagree with me.  She loves the brief grayness of winter days, days when she can curl up in a snug blanket on the sofa, the flames of the fireplace dancing warmly before her, her hands around a warm cup of tea, a good book open on her lap.  Winter keeps her warm.

Winter chills me to the core of my being, and the falling leaves of October are its harbinger.