somehow every year, each February presents itself as the toughest month. it should be the easiest, as the shortest–though this, the Leap Year, means an extra day–and the month my children came into the world, and the month when spring appears in fits and starts, and the month when love blooms, and the month when Mardi Gras pops its bubble and the party recedes for another year.
but each year February brings sorrows, turmoils, angst–extreme emotions; faltering health; recurrent nightmares. is it the extra light at the beginning and end of each day, whispering to us of warmer days ahead, even as the cold persists? is it the relentless rejuvenation that the plentiful birthdays represent? or is it the shroud of memories: the deep days of dissertating, the heavy heartbreaks? (I can’t keep up the alliteration)
has anyone written a poem about February? a sonnet for the shortest month? perhaps someone should.