April isn't here.
It's March, and it's wet and dry, and cold and warm. And it's not April.
April is poetry month, and last year my writing group hosted a Poem-A-Day, for which I completely failed to write a poem a day.
But I wrote some, and they were fun. They were almost too much fun.
And now, I am freakishly excited for April.
But it's March.
Now, it's only March.