Fickle February

In our valley, often called the hardest month breathes the fickle month of February, When even the most beautiful of snowfalls has lost all excitement Wind blows colder, and has a wild melancholy wail February is never monotonous, but promises one last final phase Where brooks running down the hill to the pond carry ice lace to the water below The woodpile, has now diminished, so that it no longer reaches the windowsill The crackle of the log on the fire will soon be silent, and we will one day miss that comforting sound Just as we will we soon miss the fragrance of the of hearty soup that simmers in a kettle on the back burner of the stove So often are we as fickle in our longings, as fickle as the fickle month of February