Speaking of April:

“Month of my birth. What record do we poets leave? Not on stone tablets, but in books like leaves that have matted together under the snows of indifference. That we were fretful, mostly, but that now and then we looked up and glimpsed something wonderful passing away.”

– Ted Kooser, in The Wheeling Year: A Poet’s Field Book (2014; Univ of Nebraska Press)