For the first time in major league months

turn without the constrictive shell of outerwear,

your face and limbs slap-happy exposed

to sun burning off a calendar of clouds.

After months of pacing and marrow straggling

pump your fists, the moment to moment meteorology

broadcast from each pore, static electricity extinct,

rooster tails untangled, the back porch in play again.

You could cut the grass in the nude

just for the sacrosanct smell of it,

or walk next door in boxer shorts and knock,

invite neighbors who've remained strangers

back onto your porch to talk politics and sports,

weather and traffic and the great outdoors.

With big blue drinks in hand and ice in a blender

simply watch the sky roll by, the bulbous sun

paddling through trees, bisecting brick chimneys,

the birds alit or aflutter in a thrombus of light.

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