But April. The season
of new light and hidden joy has long since passed, a happy memory. The new year and the promises and hope have
been tucked away—not forgotten, but tucked away. The icy severity has been conquered. The Lord of Winter has retreated, taking his
terrible army with him. The wood fires
have blazed and won the battle. Again. And the world is poised . . . poised.
But April. Colorless
and grey, stealing into the bones of all living creatures, sapping the strength
of all it touches. The continual shiver
of exhausted muscles. The lackluster
landscape, sad and forlorn. It cannot
live and it cannot die. An eternal cold
limbo with bony fingers reaching from the Underworld. And not even a grave! Even that would bring some sort of solace,
some sort of meaning, implying that at one time there may have been more,
demanding grief for what might have been.
But even that has been stolen.
Stolen. Relentlessly,
hopelessly, helplessly, endlessly. April.