February a baleful month dabbed with deep darkness, the calendar's mortuary nature's own Gulag. Its window opens upon possible impossibilities none of which yield joy. Crows plummet murderously from the heavens vainly trying to flee into spring but merely splat. Roads are crushed beneath a carpet of ****. Frosted blimps soar naked. Boots refuse to stay tied. Your parent's nightmares freeze your sweaty sleep. Snow falls like dead swans. Eclairs crystallize into lumps too solid to enjoy. A month of undeserved solitary confinement that trembles the soul. A deep achromatic terror keening coldness in a huge white wail penetrating the ears until march stops the madness and hope blossoms as crocuses, apricity achieved, small phosphorescent dots of desire.