It’s still in the 30s here and we had snow showers last night. I do see tiny buds on my forsythia, and a few brave crocuses have appeared. April is National Poetry Month; readings and celebrations are in bloom. Here is a spring poem by Philip Larkin.
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.