February, why do you make me so disappointed each year, when such potent powers are at your disposal? Could it be that your presence among us is a bit shorter than for your kinsfolk? No, it all has to do with how you tend your crafts. Allow me to say that they are a bit unevenly distributed. As I ski down the slope or criss-cross upwards the cross-country ski-track, if not fully engaged somewhere else, would you miss the opportunity to blow a cold wind in my face, or to let my ski slip on an icy spot? Of course not!

Why February, do you treat me like that? Sole guardian of the alms of warmth in your days of reign! Why so stingy with your precious gifts? Suprise us with an hour of sun, and the praise of it might reach an all-time high; leaving the plenty of summer well beyond.
But February, dearest friend, each year everything is forgiven when snowdrops start to flow on your crystal face; there to receive the incomparable honour of being among the first and foremost to be presented at the court of Spring.