February sears the human soul.

Our patience has run out, no end, no goal.

Yet beneath the ground the worms will toil

The seeds will germinate though they are frail

The gardener with his spade will dig a hole.

In the spring the shoots will pierce the earth

Life returns, the plants will feel rebirth

And in our hearts we feel the joy again.

When love is dead this joy may still remain

But here it’s cold and grey like winter death

We’re too weary even for our wrath..

And yet the birds will sing once more at dawn.

The thrush will eat the worm upon the lawn

The robin waits upon the fork upright.

And here again we see the golden light