If April is the cruelest -- and also National Poetry Month -- I'd like to spend a few moments here at the end of March talking about March, the tumult, the madness, the suprise host of Eastertime.
It's not easy being the transition month from winter to spring. Even in the DC area, where our winters are nothing like my childhood winters in Rhode Island, spring arrives on howling winds and falling tree branches and dark clouds racing across the sky.
OK, maybe I'm exaggerating a little. It's a Poe moment for me -- black and ominous -- with that raven above the door watching, waiting for me to fall asleep with an unfinished oatmeal cookie on my tv tray.
My dog Scout stands by through all this. He's here right now waiting for his walk. We've got daffodils all over the yard, but it's cold this morning.
Why is this time of year colder than December? I'll never figure that one out. But off I go to follow Scout the length of Elm Street to the park. On the bench under the big oak tree, our favorite spot, the sun will warm us as always.