March is the Cruelest Month

As March comes to a close, and I look out the window
at the beautiful white snow flakes coming down for the
second consecutive day, I realize T.S. Eliot was wrong.
We are in the middle of the biggest snow we've
had in Spruce Pine since moving here over a year ago,
just nine days after we were teased with a sunny Sunday
afternoon where the mercury hit 70 degrees.

With apologies to Thomas Stearns (Eliot),
March (not April) is the cruelest month.

March is the cruelest month, smothering

Lilacs that tried to bud, mixing

Memory and desire, freezing

Dull roots with late snow.

Winter made us schizophrenic, teasing

Us with balmy weekends, feeding

our hopes of Spring with mirages.

Summer will you ever come, come over the

Blue Ridge?

With one last blast from old man winter, we played in the snow,

Then went on inside, into the Cottage,

And drank hot chocolate, and talked.

(the above is based on the following excerpt from

Wasteland by T.S. Eliot)

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.

Summer surprised us, coming over the

Starnbergersee

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,

And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,

And drank coffee, and talked