"April, come she will ..."

Several years ago, I wrote a column rebutting T.S. Elliott's line about April being the cruelest month. After a long day of working in the yard, I sat on the deck and looked out at the newly greening lawn, the bright azalea blooms and the neat white dogwood blossoms, and I could find nothing cruel in my view, nothing to complain about. Life seemed about as good as it gets.

Now it's April again, and the azaleas glory in the sunlight filtering through the trees. The early morning sun shines in beams between the fence pickets and between the tree trunks, spotlighting the fresh, colorful blossoms. Neighbors' lawns have turned bright green, shimmering like a thick, flat emerald and highlighting the colorful blossoms all around.

After the long, ceaseless grays of winter, when we shivered against the wind and sought refuge indoors, the outdoors beckons, the colors lift our spirits, and the warmth gives us comfort. April in all its glory has quietly retaken the world from the forces of dark and gray. It is spring again, and the world stirs with hope and promise.