April is an in-between month tucked in the middle of anticipatory March when the first blush of spring sparks a fever, and May when gardens centres are awash with colour and promise. April is a gray and wet month. It’s a month of fits and starts, of disappointment and melancholy.
Now we’re past the halfway point of this confused month, and I find myself discombobulated along with her. I’ll spend a good part of this day wrangling words and grounding myself, digging in the dirt and grounding in another way, remembering that Love wins and Sunday’s coming and, boy, am I looking forward to ordinary time.