I saw a post today about what poets have to say about April. The two lines mentioned were the following:
“April is the cruelest month…”
—T.S. Eliot
“April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers…”
—Edna St. Vincent Millay
And the above lines + shifting season patterns of the midwest + thoughts on human expectation + our planning vs Higher Plans, resulted in this: