That’s the thing. April is cruel because April is capricious. She might send you sun and flowers or she might send you rain and misfortune. April can be kind, and all the bulbs and seeds you planted last fall spring into life. Or she can be cruel, and leave the ground barren and hopeless.
This year, it was winter that did it’s worst, trying to kill the trees with heavy, heavy snow. Now the drying branches have been cut down, and the tree is blooming and humming a tune underneath it’s breath—as a dozen varieties of bees dance attendance on the sweet nectar limning each petal cup.
We are wary, though. Watching her for her tricks. Her sudden moments of fury; her petulance. Which azaleas will shine, and which rhododendron will bear blooms? Will April defer to May, her gentler sister? Even then, May so often competes with June, racing to see who can get to summer first. April will join in this race, too, and this year, she won—even if only for a day.
So I could argue either way. When you wake her, you never know which April will rise from the down. The one who shines and smiles her blessing and warmth ; or the angry one who brings lightning crashing down and tries to inundate us with her tears of frustration.
Cruel? Only, I think, in her capriciousness.