April, and Philip Larkin comes to mind — specifically 'The Trees':

"The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief."

Larkin was constitutionally suspicious of hope, which is what makes that last line so quietly devastating. He watches spring arrive and sees, not renewal, but the reminder that all things bud and fail. And yet — and yet — the trees return. "Begin afresh, afresh, afresh."

There is something deeply English about finding melancholy in the most beautiful moment of the year, and then pressing on regardless.

#poetry #nostr #larkin