And now, for our (optional) prompt. In his poem "The Wasteland," T.S. Eliot famously declared that "April is the cruelest month." But is it? I'd have thought February. Today I challenge you to write a poem in which you explore what you think is the cruelest month, and why. Perhaps it's September, because kids have to go back to school. Or January, because the holidays are over and now you're up to your neck in snow. Or maybe it's a month most people wouldn't think of (like April), but which you think of because of something that's happened in your life. Happy (or, if not happy, not-too-cruel) writing!

I've chosen the month of December.

Dog walking in a Winter Wonderland

The barren trees bend and creak as they're whipped by the howling winds

My terrier darting around picking up scents, blown of course with each gust

The last few remaining leaves thrashed around in all directions

Birds glide wherever the slipstreams take them, but fighting to get to a place of refuge

Rabbits scamper for the warmth and safety of nearby burrows

In an instant, the rain comes in a tremendous downpour

Fanned transversely by the force of the gales

I whistle my dog, he bounds through mud, and already formed huge puddles to my side

As quickly as it appeared, the rain morphs into balls of ice

Driven into my face with stinging accuracy, only one thing to do, head down, hood up, and head home

The only way is to face the oncoming meteorite shower of hailstones

My face frozen now, and every once in a while, a rogue miniature iceberg collides with my cheek

A minute no more, and the onslaught abates

The cyclone ceases, abruptly

Small fluffy clouds, drift and hover, waft and glide

All is calm, and I feel mercury rising

The billow of snow flakes bloat, and are tossed around as the wind once again picks up

I pull up my collar, and head for the sanctuary of a roaring log fire, and a bowl of steaming soup