writing wrandom weirdness
It snows and it melts and it snows and it melts. And it snows. And it melts. April doesn’t know if it’s Winter or Spring. One day the trees are budded and daffodils are blooming and the long fingers of the iris spread high above the packed earth. The next day is a study in white on white and grey sky lowering over the landscape confused again by the uncertainty of April. One day Summer will descend with its oppressive heat and certainty of sunny days with endless blue sky, but not yet, not in April. In April the early flowers are not rewarded and the slower seeds lay dormant deep underground and dream of the hibernation of December and the blossoms of June, distant and quiet still.