When he wrote The Wasteland, T. S. Eliot referred to April as “the cruellest month.” He must have been going through a rough patch the day he produced that line. Not to diminish the great poet’s thoughts on the subject, but from my perspective, it is anything but. As far as the unfolding year is concerned in my world, the month of April is where Mother Nature pours her heart and soul into what life seeded in her bosom at the vernal equinox, nursing it like a baby and showering it with rain until the first week of May.