a promise to soak up the sun outdoors instead of behind windows

It's barely April,
and I can already feel the lust for summer biting at my shoulders,
impatient.

My sweat is nervous for the dry heat;
my skin cries out for a breeze,
and yet also for the still, cloudless days, like this one.

My bones wish this paradise weather could last us through 'til mid-September;
my arms long to shoot out from my body and out the car windows,
my fingers unfurling to trace and dance in the air
while my nose delights in the scent of the timbers.

My legs want to move!
It's as simple as that; my legs are simple creatures,
and they will not sit idly by while I shade myself from the sun
in a man-made cave, this time.
My tongue and lips thirst for the freshest water.

My inner ears want new music to remember this season by,
new beats, new whispy notes, new hazy ambiances,
though it'll pin down a song to my gray matter when the more familiar sounds are heard.
My teeth will tap and click to the rhythm.

My urges want a summer fling,
but my urges also want you,
and you're too far away.
My urges want you,
and they want you with the sweat, and the skin, and the bones, and all else.
My summer wants you;
my urges want a summer in you,
and that in me.

March bowed out like a lamb and left me with an appetite--
June, July, August--
and two months until I can satisfy it,

So in a few days I will probably be singing an ode to the spring showers.

It only makes sense that the want for summer is a craving,
a heady lust that spurns my hedonism into fullness.

-Dana Winter