I don't find much time to sit on a bench and wax poetic these days, but I can still quote lines that I perused during the last century. (I love doing that.) 
April is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead ground, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
The Wasteland - T.S. Eliot
April is a lovely month of flowers and showers, and who would not like to spend April in Paris? Alas, people, we are Apriling in Dallas, and I am watching tornado colors and hail reports on the television screen for the second time this week. Golf ball size hail and high winds .....lowest floor available....
We are really having fun now, and I thought the highlight of the day was mailing a check to the IRS. Just goes to show you never can tell. (Isn't that the title of a Chuck Berry song - last century?) 
1 comment:
But...April is your birthday month. I do love that poem. But not mailing checks to the IRS. Never that.
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