''April Is the Cruelest Month'' Out of the desert, palm trees are surprisingly alive in Vegas. Despite the drizzling rain, cherries are blossoming in DC. Titillated by a brisk flirtation with warm air, I can't wait to Embark on a walk to look for signs of spring, after a rain. (It seems, every year, it is by a mystical rain, overnight, the world is sprinkled into green) However, the land is still brown and the sky gray And today the rain is gone, but snow returns. In the Arb, the gooseberries, body so thin, are crashed by snow fall. The lilacs were budding yesterday, hesitate now, in doubt. The daffodils stick out their heads from snow, bodies recoiling, like me - hands deep in pockets, neck in thick winter coat. Maybe it's the hydrangeas and roses of Sharon who are wiser, With dried flowers quivering in the bitter winds, wait patiently. And a little snow man sits alone, on the top of a hill, musing over the empty valley, Occasionally gazing upon the distant Burton tower under the austere sky. Following the bends and turns of the river, while coughing terribly, the heart almost out, I see those deep eyes and the dense curly hair, vaguely caught in a glimpse, become more vivid and clear - like a roman sculpture. The few patches of grass on the riverside have vanished. Just yesterday, among those patches I had recognized, unmistakably, garlic mustards. Even earlier in March, they were already emerging on the muddy bank, defying snow and ice. I begin to secretly like these invasive plants, simply for That first green in the barren land suggests hope and promises spring.
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