April may be cruel, but March is madness. The crazy winds bend us down for closer looks, a pelting artillery full of sleet and shredded petals. At ground level, hopeful spears pierce through the hapless ruins of last year’s mulch, only to be hammered into senseless concussions by desperate underground minions, searching for spring.
It’s got to be here somewhere, they mutter, as they blindly knock down tender shoots of what they seek like bowling pins.
Meanwhile, long-legged stalkers nibble through the fresh green fuzz barely born from dark sheaths, stunting the starts before there is a chance to bloom and prosper. Like most of life, this hardly seems fair.
Left to struggle with blunted tips, what will we make of ourselves? Potential lies coiled inside earth’s naval, untrampled, still ready to burst forth into flower.
It’s the pruner’s pinch that makes us stronger.