February is half a month old, And Winter marks his time With halting step. The sun lies warm on barren branch, On conifer, and on the russet oak Whose dry leaves cling In full acceptance of all weather change. Mark, friend, Spring has a way. She appears suddenly, Twirling her sun-gold baton to hurrahs. Heed her tempo; follow that sure rhythm, And fall in line With your own eagerness.