“April is the cruelest month” is one of the most famous opening lines in English-language literature. What led T.S. Eliot to believe, or at least write, that? In The Waste Land, he tells us ihe month is a time of “breeding lilacs out of the dead land” and “stirring dull roots with spring rain.”
Rebirths certainly can be painful or, at least, arduous. Perhaps that is why lilacs and cherry blossoms have long been my favorite blooms. Not only does their vibrant colors stir me; they inspire—as strange as this may sound—as much empathy in me as any plant can. Even before I read Eliot’s poem, I felt, even if I couldn’t articulate, how their beauty was as much a denouement of pain as an expression of joy or, at least, relief.
So, if April is the “cruelest” month, what is March?
Perhaps it’s the month of uncertainty.
That occurred to me the other day, as I rode to work and saw this:
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