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I must differ with T.S. Eliot, whose poem "The Waste Land,” widely regarded as one of the most important poems of the 20th century, declared the distinction belonged to April.
I’ve always thought March to be the cruelest -- because it teases us, taunts us, tricks us. At least that's the case where I live.
Oh sure, it’s not the coldest; we have December, January and February to thank for that. But come March, we are teased with tantalizing warm days here and there. We peer and see a few green sprigs and declare, “Ah, spring can’t be far behind.”
But arising from warm beds and gazing on a gloomy and bleak landscape outside our window, we find hungry cardinals pecking at the frozen earth and waiting to be fed. Winds gnash against the window pane, we sigh and say, “perhaps tomorrow.”
March ekes out a few warm days. In the house or car it appears warm enough to don gloves and tools and go dig in the garden. But upon stepping outside the cold wind whips across our face and we race back indoors.
Are we wishing our lives away, waiting for the next good thing? Aren’t we to enjoy what each and every moment brings? I chastise myself, remove my coat and grab a book……And dream of a warmer day tomorrow.
When I can gather a few sweet flowers.