Why is it that February, the shortest month of the year, always feels like one of the longest? This year, February has been the month of interminable winter.
Just this past Wednesday, we were hit with a snowstorm. Foolishly, I chose to disbelieve the forecast and to defy the promised snow by wearing my better black flats to work. This was a mistake. I also chose to wear my less-warm coat and failed to include mittens in the outerwear ensemble, which made brushing the snow off my car after work even more delightful than that particular chore typically is. By Thursday morning, we had about a foot of snow, and the temperatures had plummeted to truly frigid depths. When I left for work on Friday morning, it was four degrees: sunshine, blue sky, and four degrees.
I’ve been meaning to enliven the blog with photographs, and while the sunshine and the snow was quite pretty — picturesque, even — I just couldn’t bring myself to photograph snow in late February, especially not in four-degree temperatures.
One of my favorite poems by Robert Frost talks about a reluctance to yield to “the drift of things”, the inevitable passage of time and the changing of seasons; but I don’t know that he really meant it about winter. I think maybe about the time February reached its middle, Mr. Frost might have been just as ready to see the end of winter as I am, right now.