"April Is The Cruelest Month"/April Showers Bring May Flowers

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust)

-from "The Wasteland", by Thomas Stearns "Old Possum" Eliot.

Or as it happens, could we refer to the times and the season as "Old Button's Book of Providential and Propitious Mistakes"?  How it was, as it would ever be, times, there were seasons, and the very cloud of pollen around here(I saw it, dustings of pollen) cleared in a gentle and natural washing.  Fits and starts, fits and starts: intermittent claims of a season on posterity and history being put to mind--we can remember it or not, the cycle of the weather, for it is always; there will be more to come--the season seems to writes its own tail, does it not?

Between Easter, April Fool's and the Barkspangle Moon, the Penumbral Moon or whatever they call it, the monicker of that old hoary mendicant;  here we stand as God whispers through the natural world, the impending whatever of a Summer 2024 movie season, Beyonce's "country" album and sundry other--streaming networks like a bag of angry cats, jumping over one another, and the very main of the thing is free programming used to promote paid programming, with the free programming being the main swath, such that the pay network is hopelessly riddle with debt to the tune of some lost billions in a quarter.

A good season to piss in the yard, I wot.

And what more could we see of spring that hasn't or won't be before our eyes anyway, pelting us as it does?

Festus and Mayblossom Hagen, herself a secondhand rose, "too proud to be a queen", as it were, cropped hair and uni-sex wardrobe.  Come to wed; come to wed, on a old promise made between the Hagens.  Wretch and his lover Rags("a child out of the water"), those two.

There was a photo from our Easter thing, as such: curly-headed young mkl, in a wife-beater shirt, the pork backbone in hand, myself pulling pieces at random intervals.  I had made these little birthday signs for so many in the extended family; because there were so many April birthdays among that set-my own birthday infamously in December.  Most of them camped under the shade of a volunteer oak, what the old-timers called a Turkey Oak, old Mister Mcintosh.  Where where the others my age?  There were hiding in the house, stealing into a stash of old porn magazines, while I sat at the picnic table at the edge of the shade and took-up a face-full of pig-picking fare.

I had a piece in mind, some half-steps up the baseline, sixteenths.  Then half-notes: D(5th), C(3rd), and G(root): simplistic, yes, but the natural quality of the very basic music can be very pleasing to the ear, I find.