I'm tired of this. Can I trade it for some Australia?

twenty eight days half gone
and marked by dying roses,
discarded candy wrappers, and pink
carnations; cookie crumbs and
promises, swept away with salt and sand
and other agents of anti-freeze.
just so much grit on the floor.
the mud is everywhere, sticking
to careless feet the way humid
air sticks in careless throats
that foolishly seek to breathe.

This is February out of joint,
unfit for human consumption
in ways beyond the usual.
there is no air here, only mud
and the promise of fourteen more days
of broken hearts and broken weather.

who knew sunshine would be so
offensive? how strange indeed, that
we should prefer the could and snow
to endless days of almost rain. misery
of a different color, but misery
all the same. it's February, that
most abused of months: a month of
purgatory and pagan inclinations,
pathetic with its paltry allotment
of days and daylight. Each sunset
comes too slowly, followed by an
even more lethargic dawn. (this month
is far too short to be this long) we could
be trapped forever, staring at the sun.

who knows what days lie hidden, waiting
beyond that incandescent stretch of sky?

----
If I hear another person complain about the weather, I will be forced to choke a bitch. That is all.