I'd say spring was coming, but it's almost March

Saturday I emailed the fellow who portrayed George Washington and asked him to convey our birthday wishes to the General; he said he would, gladly. Amazing.

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

January's bearable

In spite of bad report.

Though February's terrible,

It's short.

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 

In July.

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-

Out complaint.

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).