I don't like February, at least not in the Northern hemisphere. It's been a while for the Southern, so I'll withhold disapprobation until I get a chance to go Down Under (or equivalent) again.
This month always marks my lowest energy ebb, the month that hardest to get out of bed, or out the door. The sun comes up late (even as the days grow incrementally longer, a few seconds at a crack) and most of the time is sequester behind grayness.
It's a dead zone. Trees are bare. Plants huddle waiting a sign to bloom again. Running is treacherous, and this excluding this year, bitter cold where I live. (This year it's sopping wet, which scares the farmers. The wheat is coming up and a bitter freeze might do serious harm to the crops.)
January at least has the shiny glow of a new year. March might have weather just as crummy - or worse, even - but at least spring a hint of spring floats on the air, waiting.
February sits there like a lump, occupying time on the calendar. Christmas is in the rearview mirror, fading fast. Spring lurks over the horizon, but the date of return is uncertain.
So February drags out, like a night spent listening to the slow drip from a faucet, plonking just often enough to wake you as you drop off.
So no, I don't like February, but if I squint hard enough, I can make out March and the promise of spring. It's not much of a promise from this vantage point, but it's enough. I'll get there restless and ever-so-ready.