‘The very three a.m.’

“The Thaw” (1991), by Nikoklay Anokhin

‘‘The most serious charge which can be brought against New England is not Puritanism, but February.... Spring is too far away to comfort even by anticipation, and winter long ago lost the charm of novelty. This is the very three a.m. of the calendar.’’

— Joseph Wood Krutch (1893-1970), American essayist, critic and naturalist. In the 1940s, he lived in Redding, Conn.

Snowdrops piercing the snow.

Walk in the snow in the middle of the street

February, from the Très riches heures du Duc de Berry (circa 1415)

From Robert Whitcomb’s “Digital Diary,’’ in GoLocal24.com

February landscapes look more like drawings than paintings.

I’ve noticed  in the past few days far more Christmas wreaths still hanging on front doors than last year at this time, and holiday lights are lingering later, too. A way to ward off evil spirits or at least viruses?

xxx

Joseph Wood Krutch (1893-1970), the nature essayist, famously wrote that “the most serious charge which can be brought against New England is not Puritanism but February’’, that  paradoxically short but seemingly long month. And yet, its sun is warmer than January’s, its days are noticeably longer and you get from time to time a cold but dry and windless day that can be exhilarating – a perfect day for the season. And in some years, you see snow drops and other early flowers popping out along the strips of road with a southern exposure and smell warming earth.

A couple of nice things about snowstorms, for all their inconveniences: the muffling of harsh sounds and that you can walk in the middle of the street.

'In February'

"Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn,
Unseen, this colorless sky of folded showers,
And folded winds; no blossom in the bowers;
A poet's face asleep in this grey morn.
Now in the midst of the old world forlorn
A mystic child is set in these still hours.
I keep this time, even before the flowers,
Sacred to all the young and the unborn."

--  Alice Meynell, "In February''

It only looks dead

"The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.

"Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red."

--  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, "Afternoon in February''