It’s allegedly going to snow on April 5th and I want to vomit thinking about it.
I’ve made it pretty obvious that I’m no fan of winter, and I was hoping with the mild start of the month that we’d have a pretty easy segue into spring. Obviously I was wrong, with the snow last week and the overall coldness of this month (can there be a morning where it isn’t 30 degrees out yet?), but it’s going to April in less than a few days (Friday, in fact!) and I wish I could protest the weather as much as I can protest anything else I dislike.
Anyway, it’s supposed to snow on April 5th and it will probably be gone by noon again, but the more I think about it the more I’m getting anxious. It’ll be National Poetry Month, and even the coldest poetry reminds me of warmer weather. With poetry comes spring, and with spring comes warmth. April itself is a relatively hectic month, where the flies start coming out (as if they haven’t already begun to brave the cool beginning here in Massachusetts) and people shed their jackets even if they still need them, hoping that if they dress for nice weather, the nice weather will come.
I’ll be presenting in front of an audience, too, about social change and the horror genre, and there’s the publication of the journal to be worried about. Spring is as much for new beginnings as it is for the end of things, which might be paradoxical, but then, students come most alive when they’re almost finished with classes, and that goes double for when they’re in college. April means Springfest, it means the onset of finals, it means the buzz underneath the skin gets stronger.
So no, I don’t want it to snow.
Whitman comes to mind with April and May though; Leaves of Grass asks for something new and different and fresh, and there’s a nice newness of the body where we haven’t seen it before. We’ll talk about dirt underneath our feet and imagine the earth heating up as the sun feels closer. My copy of the book is, fittingly, green.