April is not the cruellest month.
April rustles its feathers, shakes out its hair, weeps at the smell of guttural earth and dirt awaking.
April wears ‘miserable’ like a raincoat, carries an umbrella in one pocket and a softcover mystery novel in the other that it only reads on the bus.
April is dimming skies at 8pm that make you feel like breathing, like the night might not begin or end or carry on, like dusk might exist forever if you just stood there and gave your eyesight to its gentle kiss.
April is kindness in dark moments, the softening of frozen edges, fingertips, and hearts.
April is broken hearts learning forgiveness.
April is forgiving.
April is forgiving.
April is forgiving, and a laying down of weapons, a forging of wheat and yeast and baking bounties to feast on.
April is humble.
April is peasant wishes and extravagance in dreams and roadtrips.
April is summer on the tip of your tongue.
April is unsweetened iced tea cooling your throat, your lungs.
April is ice cubes that make you cold.
April is the fire of renewal.

Photo credit: Софи on Flickr.

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