April is the cruellest month, wrote T.S. Elliot. It’s cruel, he implies, because it disturbs. But, in April, something starts to happen. Here is the end of this part of the poem.
Our kitchen is stocked with gizmos. A dozen hats hang in the hallway. When will I need a fireman’s helmet? It’s there, just in case.
No one is going to buy our house. The smells are too complex.
The best gift I ever gave was a dinner for two.
Autumn discomfits us. It is really two seasons in one.