It is almost April.
Historically not a popular month for my psyche.
Last year that all changed and April was lovely.
I think it started with a dream.

I plan for this April to be lovely too.
Everything has gone green.

Here is a poem from 1930 by American poet Lizette Woodworth Reese. I have no idea why I purchased a pale green tattered vintage collection of poems called White April from the used bookstore in 1991. I was nineteen and I think I was searching for something.

White April

The orchard is a pool, wherein I drown;
It is a very pool of loveliness.
I clutch the edge of a white world and press
To bottomless white billows down and down:
I clutch, I gasp, and all at once each spring
That I have known comes sharply to my mind,
Passes before me, and each one I find,
Stirs in me a packed, swift remembering.
Oh, pear-trees, ancient by an ancient lane,
A hundred at the delicate white start,
Tall waves that roll and break upon a shore!
I struggle up, I am myself again:
Dripping with April, April to the heart,
I run back to the house, and bolt the door!

x.

And if you missed yesterday's bit of fiction, you might enjoy it.
Click on yesterday's link as well and she will even speak those words to you.