April's Fool

April Fool's Day came and went, as it does most often, without me thinking about it until evening. It is one of the things I regularly miss. I have looked up the origins of the day. Mythical and religious roots, Julian and Gregorian calendar, yada yada yada. The Romans and the Celts set aside a day for mischief making. The problem with the day, perhaps, is its lack of a memorable figure. It needs an avatar like Santa or Cupid, some jester or fool or joker. Or, perhaps, a fool in love. For, as Eliot forecasts in "The Waste Land,"

"April is the cruelest month. . . ."

Hope.  

And there is Shakespeare's warning.

When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
“Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
“Cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo!” O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear.

(Song, Act V, Scene 2,  Love’s Labors Lost)

Pied fools and jesters bright we are.  All April's Fool.