Wednesday, April 27, 2011
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
From The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot
I love the scent of my neighbor's lilacs, which perfume the whole street. Memories stir: of Crash's birth, of Tom's funeral, of my own birthdays. Cool and warm, sweet and stinging.
I'm submerged in the end of semester, a swirling chaos of endings and beginnings. Planning for next year, closing off this year, graduation. Writing (four pieces due in the next week, all in various stages of completion or not, scattered across the floor of my study...).
I've little time or energy to write here, but hope keeps me pinning bits up on the wall in my study, waiting for May's open burst of time.
Photo is from Wikimedia Commons.