From nearly 6 years ago...
"They say that February is the shortest month, but you know they could
be wrong.
Compared, calander page against calander page, it looks to be the
shortest, all right. Spread between January and March like lard on
bread, it fails to reach the crust on either slice. In its
galoshes-and you'll never catch February in stocking feet-it's a full
head shorter than December, allthough in leap years, when it has growth
spurts, it comes up to April's nose.
However more abbreviated than it's cousins it may look, February feels
longer than any of them. It is the meanest moon of winter, all the more
cruel because it will masquerade as spring, ocasionally for hours at a
time, only to rip off it's mask with a sadistic laugh and spit icicles
into every gullible face, behavior that grows quickly old.
February is pitiless, and it is boring. That parade of red numbers on
it's page adds up to zero: birthdays of politicians, a holiday reserved
for rodents, what kind of celebrations are those? The only bubble in
the flat champagne of February is Valentines Day. It was no accident that
our ancestors pinned Valentines Day on February's shirt: he or she lucky
enough to have a lover in frigid, antsy February has cause for
celebration, indeed.
Except to the extent that it ‘tints the buds and swells the leaves
within,’ February is as useless as the extra r in its name. It behaves
like an obstacle, a wedge of slush and mud and ennui, holding both progress
and contentment at bay.
If February is the color of lard on rye, its aroma is that of wet wool
trousers. As for sound, it is an abstract melody played on a squeaky
violin, the pretty whine of a shrew with cabin fever. O February, you may be little but you're small! Were you twice your tiresome
length, few of us would survive to greet the merry month of May."