letter to the end of February

Oh, February. Imagine me sitting here sighing as I write you. Imagine me under covers with the cat at my feet, wondering when you will give up the bitter ghosts that I know must haunt you. I realize you tried to make amends with the fluffy and romantic powdering of snow you offered last week. You have been relatively mild lately, perhaps in an effort to see if I could love you.

Alas, February, I don't know if it is meant to be after all. We're both trying here but there's something cold like ice between us that I just can't get over. It isn't your fault, really, with all you must contend with but I am tired of bare branches and frost. I need green, February, and that is something you cannot give me no matter how hard you try.

I'm sorry I cannot be fond of you the way I am those months that bring me flowers. You have given me hope, February and that is significant. You offer a promise of something else, something... not you and I appreciate your self-awareness and willingness to step aside while March sweeps in. She can be fierce, as you know but no matter how much freshly dewed grass and flowerbuds she gives me, I will still think of you and the time we had together. You have made a warrior of me, February, steeled me against the cold and bitterness of winter. I will try very hard not to be seduced by April this year but you know how heady pollen and butterflies and light touches of breeze can be.

I won't lie to you February nor expect much from you in the short time we've left with one another. Maybe you can relax, instead and not feel the need to go out with a bang or in your case, snowstorm.

Love,
Devon