February

Spring never seems as far away as it does in February.
    
     February, it seems, is a month of extremes.  Teasing warm days followed by bone-chilling frost and wind.  Quiet health and ravishing sickness.  The days are starting to extend, but not nearly as much as is needed.   Certain times of the day seem to stretch out space;  the yard seems particularly empty, and in its emptiness, it appears so much bigger.  Tricks of the eyes, or the senses, or the sun herself, I don't know.  A smaller calendar, fewer days, yet a constant increase in the number of obligations.
     February always seems to be a month of adversity, a month that runs out of days before it can come up with any conclusions or offer any solutions.  Just as abrupt as the end of this month, so too the disappearance of all that ails in February.
   
     Maybe it's just the hope that comes with March;  a new season just around the corner,  with the promise of more time trapped inside the extending hours of sunlight. 
     It could be the hope that arrives on the heels of the return of color, the putting-away of the death-garb of winter.  The undertones of the next holiday, Easter; something sweet, the promise of new life, the swarm of pastels, and something in the air that tastes like young sounds.

     By February, every blanketed morning sky is just another grim reminder of winter.  'When will it end' seems to never end, lasting far longer than any other time of year.
     The shortness and the busyness always leaves me breathless.  It's almost like I'm the one who has to do all the work to bring forth spring, and when spring finally decides to show her face, I can relax.

     It could be a monstrous combination of all these things.   Or it could just be that I need a nap.