Month By Month

April

4/1/00

Dear Green Leaves in the Maple Grove,

Your color is a sight to mine eyes, indeed! What a merry thing to see when I go about strolling. These deciduous trees I stumbled upon not very long ago, but oh, they wasted no time to expose their green hands—extending to me, and maybe me alone, as if in prayer.

I am not a religious woman, I never really was, but there is something in the way the world opens its arms to warmth, to light. There is something in the way it stands up, graciously, like a rouge-cheeked welcoming mother—allowing the things below it to antagonize, then realize—it is okay to open up as well.

It is okay to swell, and grow, and change one's colors if one wants to.

In hindsight, and upon rereading what I have written for this entry, maybe I'm being silly. Maybe the trembling blossoms and joyful birdsong have gotten a hold of me. Maybe I'm being too poetic, maybe I am a fool. Maybe the spring does this to all of us, and it's supposed to.

Whatever is going on inside my body, I feel that it is good. If I am making a rambling fool of myself, who has the gall to care?

Oh, April, you make me a doddering poet. But not even so refined as that, I fear.

You make me want to sing for joy! Why can't I be a bird?

Now I have crossed the line from amateur philosopher, and into a crazy thing.

April, the month when new warmth would make me youthful!