|APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding|
|Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing|
|Memory and desire, stirring|
|Dull roots with spring rain.|
|Winter kept us warm, covering|
|Earth in forgetful snow, feeding|
|A little life with dried tubers|
The part about feeding a little life with dried tubers has changed in meaning for me. Indeed April was the cruellest month once and made me want to seek shelter in the anonymous blandness of Winter - a time of limited need or want. Dried tubers kept me alive but never quite fed the soul. In time April would not be so cruel anymore. Memory could mix with desire and not turn into pain.
In today's reading, these lines made me pause, read again and wonder about the many way in which to think about the mysterious third on the other side of you.