April is the coolest month

T.S. Eliot wrote some prime stuff, but he totally lost me with this assertion:

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

All that breeding, mixing, and stirring is just fine with me. And with April's arrival, the daffodils in my front garden will finally awaken and begin their delightful annual dance, prompting me to go around chanting a certain poem by William Wordsworth.

Have you ever tried writing a poem? Anyone can do it, as I discovered to my delight a year ago this week, when I wrote one quite by accident. Like writing fiction, no special talent is required for you to enjoy the process, and if the results please you, who's to say that what you're writing isn't any good?

April is National Poetry Month. So if there are any poems in you, why not think about setting them free?