The day and time itself: late afternoon in early February,
was there a moment of the year better suited for despair?
February is a suitable month for dying. Everything around is dead, the trees black and frozen so that the appearance of green shoots two months hence seems preposterous, the ground hard and cold, the snow dirty, the winter hateful, hanging on too long
Why does February feel like one big Tuesday?
Even though February was the shortest month of the year, sometimes it seemed like the longest
I used to try to decide which was the worst month of the year. In the winter I would choose February. I had it figured out that the reason God made February short a few days was because he knew that by the time people came to the end of it they would die if they had to stand one more blasted day
The Polar Intuit of northwest Greenland, the northernmost people, call February ‘seqinniaq’, “the month when the sun appears
The February fog,
Turns all into blobs,
Orange street lights,
To Valentine's Night.
When the wind strays,
Fog's mantle is grey,
Laying misty bouquets,
On barren, muddied days.
The daffodils of March,
Can cheer up Plutarch,
Adorned in Kelly green,
No sign of foggy screens.
Light a fire in flinty February,
As the evening time comes down,
Welcome all the family home
With shopping bought from town.
Hear the logs crackle and roll,
And the sparks pop and hiss,
A storm roars down the chimney,
To deliver its tempestuous kiss.
Drowsiness in the living room,
As the expiring embers fade,
Up we go to those clean sheets,
And beds so neatly made.
