April is the cruelest month. No, that’s not it. Start again.
April is National Poetry Month.
Yay! We used to do readings in April, back in my day. That was nice. Here’s a poem.

Why is our century worse than any other?
Is it that in the stupor of fear and grief
It has plunged its fingers into the blackest ulcer
Yet cannot bring relief?

Westward the sun is dropping,
And the roofs of towns are shining in its light.
Already death is chalking doors with crosses
And calling the ravens and the ravens are in flight.

Anna Akhmatova | 1919