The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over a sunlit arch,
And wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.
—Robert Frost, “Two Tramps in Mud Time”
When I was around eight years old, my friend Marcy and I found a copy of Robert Frost’s poems while we were rummaging in my uncle Ralph’s bedroom. Uncle Ralph was single, and based on his reputation, and bachelor status, and the tendency of the members on the paternal side of my family to create cousins who were “born on the wrong side of the blanket,” we thought we were doing something wicked when we used to sneak into Uncle Ralph’s room and read Robert Frost poems to each other. Somehow it was even more fun than reading my aunt Marion’s books about contraception. As adults, Marcy and I both have strong literary leanings. Perhaps Robert Frost was partly responsible.