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…
-TS Eliot, The Wasteland
Palm Sunday. A parade toward betrayal, pain, despair, and death.
Crocuses muffled in sudden spring snow, heavy and wet.
Cars off the road.
How could you forget how to drive in winter, so soon?
It always snows again in April, I said.
I was right.
Budding trees and flowering shrubs – freeze frame.
The cedars and arborvitae, which had just begun to lift,
bent now under a burden of white.
I wasn’t quite ready, anyway.
I heard his voice yesterday, so clear,
quoting Sara Teasdale’s “I am not yours,”
the voice that he left on my answering machine,
nearly thirty years ago.
“For yours is a spirit, beautiful and bright…”
just as I was feeling unworthy as mother to our daughter
whose spirit is more beautiful and bright than mine can ever be,
Winter can’t come if it never leaves.
Sun and spring flowers, up from bulbs planted just before winter was coming.
“Mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain…”
Today I am grateful for the warmth of winter
and the forgetful snow.