Poets often laud spring as a beautiful season, alive with new possibilities and promise. April showers bringing may flowers, apple blossoms glistening star like in the morning mist, love flourishing midst the woodland animals. That kind of crap.
These poets have obviously never spent the springtime month of April in Maine. Because in Maine April is a grey, filthy, depressing month. One filled with showers, yes, but the kind that bring mud long before flowers; the kind that fill bogs and swamps with stagnant water that will eventually come alive only with mosquitoes whose lone promise is a progeny who will continue to haunt and hover throughout the summer.