We know that Nature and man too often disagree, and the month of February is a perfect example of that. February is the longest month. It encompasses the snows of December, the cold of January, the winds of March, the rains (which in February are frozen) of April. Only at the very end, and often only if we are lucky, do we get a hint of the flowers of May.
It is frustrating that our calendars tell us that we are nearly into spring, as we continue daily to battle the blues of a too-long winter. Only four weeks till warmth, the calendar says, as we chop our firewood or buy our fuel for the coldest blasts of the year.
Only three weeks, the calendar lies, until sunshine comes, and the warm, wet winds, as we once again add an extra layer of clothing to keep us warm as we scrape the ice off our windshields. Only two weeks, the calendar declares, until life becomes beautiful again, and we look out our windows at ice sculptures that glitter in the hard sunshine. (Hmm. Hard? And Sunshine? Maybe the calendar is not so wrong as we first thought.) One more week, swears that calendar of ours, one more week and we will be heading out of winter, as the blizzard roars.
After the blizzard, we walk outside, checking for dangers and damages, and what is that we see, just below the stalactites of water hanging from our eaves. It is a different blade of white, tinged with maybe purple, maybe yellow. A flower, not afraid to brave the cold and the snow. It breathes in the cold crisp air and sends sunshine deep into the earth
Maybe the calendar is not so wrong, we think, but then again, we know. These last four weeks - twenty-eight days - no matter who was counting or how, have taken a lot longer than the six hundred seventy two hours allotted to them by our measurements. It seems that we have spent all those hours battling the last blasts of winter.
February, the longest month, draws to a close.
It is frustrating that our calendars tell us that we are nearly into spring, as we continue daily to battle the blues of a too-long winter. Only four weeks till warmth, the calendar says, as we chop our firewood or buy our fuel for the coldest blasts of the year.
Only three weeks, the calendar lies, until sunshine comes, and the warm, wet winds, as we once again add an extra layer of clothing to keep us warm as we scrape the ice off our windshields. Only two weeks, the calendar declares, until life becomes beautiful again, and we look out our windows at ice sculptures that glitter in the hard sunshine. (Hmm. Hard? And Sunshine? Maybe the calendar is not so wrong as we first thought.) One more week, swears that calendar of ours, one more week and we will be heading out of winter, as the blizzard roars.
After the blizzard, we walk outside, checking for dangers and damages, and what is that we see, just below the stalactites of water hanging from our eaves. It is a different blade of white, tinged with maybe purple, maybe yellow. A flower, not afraid to brave the cold and the snow. It breathes in the cold crisp air and sends sunshine deep into the earth
Maybe the calendar is not so wrong, we think, but then again, we know. These last four weeks - twenty-eight days - no matter who was counting or how, have taken a lot longer than the six hundred seventy two hours allotted to them by our measurements. It seems that we have spent all those hours battling the last blasts of winter.
February, the longest month, draws to a close.
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