T.S. Eliot famously called April “the cruellest month” in his fever dream of a poem, “The Wasteland.” April has never felt that way to me, but it is the month that feels most accelerated, everything insistently green, bursting forth, and revving to a breathless pace.
Then there’s Mary Oliver, offering a different April altogether. Hush, she tells us, listen. Maybe wherever you are, the frogs are singing too.
“I wanted to speak at length about
the happiness of my body... ”
