![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
By Jon Rieley-Goddard
copyright 2007-2008
The flakes actlike crazy people,
dancing in air.
April is the cruelest month, mixing memory and desire, (and, I might add, breeding lilacs out of the dead land). Thanks to T.S. Eliot. In the sense of thanks not for the phenomenon but for the phenomenal verses.
April, in Buffalonya (TM), my city (Buffalonya rhymes with Bologna -- mostly just for fun), is the cruelest month for reasons having to do with the antics of snowflakes, that dance in the air and seek to mass themselves on the ground for a last assault on the emerging springtime.
Every April, without fail, the snowflakes make what one hopes is a final appearance. Like little lovers, they tease and swirl, seeking to excite old passions for coldness.
Look, they say, we make the trees and bushes white with the flocking of seasons past. Is it not beautiful?
But we resist, saving ourselves for the sun of summer, opening our arms to the memory of heat.
No, say the snowflakes, do not turn away, for we will be cold in our turn if you send us away. Think ahead to next winter. You will miss us if we stay away.
Yes, we say. Go, and go quickly. Enough of this unseemly display. Yield to the season, and try no more to trick us with reason. Weather or not, there you go.
- A version of this piece appears in my Grimoire: The Bros Grim Breakfast Serial.
