It would be terribly irresponsible of me not to post a little poetry before the month ends. After all, April is National Poetry Month. The presumptive poem of the month is T. S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland,” because it starts with these timely lines:
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
But I’d like to take us back in the calendar a month or two, back to the “midwinter spring” of Eliot’s “Little Gidding,” the last of his FOUR QUARTETS. . .