“April is the cruellest month…”
I think T. S. Eliot had it wrong. March is by far the worst month. The worst of the worst. Dreary. Brittle. Dismal. It’s the month when Mother Nature shows her whimsical ways. In the flatlands yesterday is was 80 degrees. Today I don’t think it made it up to 40.
Typically in February we see a quick warm up. A few days, maybe a week, where the temps tease with warm breezes and the sky is bright, sunny. Then March muscles in with a misty overcast and a depressing gloom. At the core, it’s an identity issue. Winter? Or Spring?
Thinking of Eliot, I went in search of a poem that might aptly express the animosity I feel for this month. My quick exploration didn’t turn up anything I found prickly enough, but here are a couple of much kinder interpretations.
"March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes
and a laugh in her voice."
- Hal Borland
"Springtime is the land awakening. The March winds are the morning yawn."
- Lewis Grizzard
Those little doses of boyish admiration got me to ease up a bit on my loud displeasure over a lousy month. A transitional month. A better perspective would be to find relief in the knowing that in less then ten days it will officially be spring. And then I found this:
"I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,
If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,
If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun
And crocus fires are kindling one by one:
Sing robin, sing:
I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring."
- Christina Rossetti
Actually I don’t doubt that spring is on the way. I see it coming by watching the buds on my magnolia grow plump. I’ve witnessed its power by the rapid growth of my allium with only two days of unusual heat. I measure the acceleration by the increasing number of sinus pills I need to take.
Even with the sniffling and snorting, I remain anxious for a quick transformation. I wait and watch and hanker for the steady warmth. But it’s not all a lyrical, poetic yearning. A lot of it is just being peeved that my “transitional” wardrobe is sadly lacking.
Shallowness aside, I throw open my pasty white arms to welcome a brighter day and wave off the passing of a dour companion.
5 comments:
I guess the flatland is always flatter!
Ha!
Just in case you didn't get my pun...grass is always greener?
I'm hard to understand that way. Sometimes. *smile*
The heat is already settling on us and I am DREADING it.
We have a good eight months of summer here in AZ.
I would love some cooler weather! Like I said the flatland is always flatter!
*smile*
Hello! Thanks for stopping by - it's always lovely to meet a new blogger.
Your post caught my eye right off, because A)I love all things Italian. I think i might have been Italian in my last life, so bonjourno! 2) I dig poetry, especially Eliot when he's writing about cats, and D) that last line about throwing open your pasty white arms and greeting spring just cracked me up. Anybody who has that kind of flair for words and images is alright in my book!
Just like Arnold in the Terminator:
"I'll be back."
We don't get spring till June and even then it's iffy. Last night was minus thirty not including wind chill. So March can seriously kiss my patootie.
Then I read Quirkyloon's comment about Arizona and cried. I WANT EIGHT MONTHS OF SUMMER.
That is an excellent photograph. It's so haunting and mournful.
"March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice."
Well, if this is anything like grade school, that means March is going to give me an Indian burn on my arm.
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