T.S Eliot was wrong!

    ‘April is the cruellest month’ is the opening line to T. S. Eliot’s 1922 poem The Waste Land.  

   No, no, no...March is the cruellest month.  Proof is the second day of temperatures in the mid-30s and a 30 mph wind. How tiresome is that?  Even working on the leeward side of the trees provided only partial protection. Winter may be over but March can sure be miserable.

    Well, that's my whine for the day.  On a cheerier note today is Frode's 99th birthday. Calling him to wish his a happy birthday this morning provided a delightful conversation. He can tell about his experiences as a WWII bomber pilot in Asia. Not only that, he can tell you what he did yesterday. Often I've said to him "I want to be like you when I grow up."  Is there still hope?

Takk for alt,

Al

Mercy
by Stephen Dunn

The music was fidgety, arch,
an orchestral version of twang.
Welcome to atonal hell,
welcome to the execution
of a theory, I kept thinking,
thinking, thinking. I hadn't felt
a thing. Was it old fashioned
of me to want to? Or were feelings,
as usual, part of the problem?
The conductor seemed to flail
more than lead, his baton evidence
of something unresolved,
perhaps recent trouble at home.
And though I liked the cellist—
especially the way
she held her instrument—
unless you had a taste
for unhappiness
you didn't want to look
at the first violinists face.
My wife whispered to me
This music is better than it sounds.
I reminded myself the world outside
might be a worse place
than where I was now,
though that seemed little reason
to take heart. Instead
I closed my eyes, thought about
a certain mezzo soprano
who could gladden a sad day
anywhere, but one January night
in Milan went a full octave
into the beyond. Sometimes escape
can be an art, or a selfishness,
or just a gift you need
to give yourself. Whichever,
I disappeared for a while,
left my body behind to sit there, nod,
applaud a the appropriate time.

               Today's random: The Bridge Over The River Kwai, where's Col. Bogey?