I definitely have spring fever right now. It's sixty degrees outside and sunny - I think the cats also have it. Everyone wants to be near an open window.
Where I live, February is generally the coldest month. Not this year. It's been mostly in the forties, and we've had no appreciable snow since December. So, on a day like this I can really feel that I'm ready for spring to begin.
Except that I don't trust March. And wouldn't you know, I came across a poem in my Phyllis McGinley book on that very subject.
Song for a Personal Prejudice
In spite of bad report.
Though February's terrible,
With snows in proper season,
Each burdens down the larch.
But March is full of treason,
And I hate March.
Hold your hats and duck, boys, March is nearly due,
The sleet is on the windowpane, the slush is on the shoe.
The pneumococcus carols a loud, triumphant song,
And not a holiday's in sight the whole month long.
On many a wedding present
In June my ducats fly.
The temperature's unpleasant
As August airs grow olden,
Hay fever's what I've got.
But any time seems golden
Compared to you-know-what.
Pick your shovels up, lads, you'll never know reprieve,
For March is on the threshold with a blizzard up its sleeve,
With a pussy-willow fable that is feeble in its facts,
And a brand-new estimation of your extra income tax.
October leaves I rake with
An ardor far from faint,
And April wetting take with-
Serene, in weather lawful,
I shiver or I parch.
But March is merely awful.
I can't stand March.
Away, that month despicable, those days of dread and doubt,
When the gale blows down the chimney and the oil is running out.
(Besides, I own a private cause to call the time accurst -
I'll have another birthday when its March the twenty-first).