POM: a bit of hope
January is a paradox for me. It’s both the longest month and shortest month. It seems long due to the dark and dreary everlasting winter days, yet short because of looming finals, grading papers, and preparing lessons for second semester. This is why I’m a fan of February. I could say it’s because February is the shortest month which means I’m that much closer to June and summer break. It could be because it’s the month of Valentine’s Day, and who doesn’t appreciate a holiday filled with love and chocolate?
I actually favor February because it’s a month that is filled with hope. Days are getting longer, snow is giving away to grassy patches, there is the sense of completing another school year as graduation day is nearer on the horizon. There is also the moment of pause to think, “This year will be even better than last year.”
To celebrate this feeling of hope, the Poem of the Month is “To Hope” by Charlotte Smith
Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes!
How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn!
For me wilt thou renew the wither’d rose,
And clear my painful path of pointed thorn?
Ah come, sweet nymph! in smiles and softness drest,
Like the young hours that lead the tender year,
Enchantress! come, and charm my cares to rest:—
Alas! the flatterer flies, and will not hear!
A prey to fear, anxiety, and pain,
Must I a sad existence still deplore?
Lo!—the flowers fade, but all the thorns remain,
“For me the vernal garland blooms no more.”
Come then, “pale Misery’s love!” be thou my cure,
And I will bless thee, who, tho’ slow, art sure.
image: morguefile/lisasolonynko
Pam Webb 
You’re kinda yelling that poem, aren’t ya? (Or is the huge font size just on my screen?)
You kill me. The huge font is on my screen, as well. Here I was enjoying the poem and then I see this old man with horn pressed up against his ear, saying “eh? What’s that you say? Talk louder!”—only in the reverse. LOL
I’m thinking that all months are too short. But then, I’ve got this crazy child who’s now an inch or two taller than I am, and he’s only 12. Time is fleet of foot.
Really, Cricket. You should use your indoor voice.
Yes, once children are taller than the parent than feet are fleeting.
No yelling was used in the typing of this poem. Maybe those exclamation points got too rowdy.