April is the cruelest month, but May is the month of our beloved mother, Mary.
Out of the mouth of the Mother of God
Like a little word come I;
For I go gathering Christian men
From sunken paving and ford and fen,
To die in a battle, God knows when,
By God, but I know why.
"And this is the word of Mary,
The word of the world's desire
'No more of comfort shall ye get,
Save that the sky grows darker yet
And the sea rises higher.'"
Then silence sank. And slowly
Arose the sea-land lord,
Like some vast beast for mystery,
He filled the room and porch and sky,
And from a cobwebbed nail on high
Unhooked his heavy sword.
--G.K. Chesterton, BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE
Stormfields 
“… breeding lilacs out of the dead ground.” Eliot.
But there are literary hooks one could use where there’s a rather lovelier view taken of the month:
“Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote.”