There is a blur of faint green
spreading across
the Maple's crooked,
damp branches.
The neighbor's battered
tin buckets are collecting
trickles of light
brown sap.
Let's steal the sap,
stand outside naked,
bathing in the new sun,
feet planted in the soft
brown earth and take
big gulps of warming air.
Watch the disappearing snow
with a kind of vengence,
suitable to guests
who recently refused to respond
to the strongest requests
to leave.
I can start a fire
and burn away the cold,
wet ground, the ancient
sodden leaves, the water
softened sticks, even the hoofprints,
small and large, of deer
foraging close to the
house.
As the smoke drifts over the
trees, lets eat messy smores
until the urge to vomit
is within reach, always
exulting in the simple triumph
of being outside,
once more being free.
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