These days I find myself recalling T.S. Eliot: "April is the cruellest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain." In other words, starting again only revives a painful past.
But I don't believe that. We're visiting family, and in Maine woods it's hard to see how this could be anything but a hopeful season. Osiris rises. Persephone returns. The stone is rolled away.