Summer Return

On the first day warm enough to really sweat,
When shadows are brief and the sun lingers,
Open windows beckon with alarm bells of
Distant raucouses of children,
Meditations of lawn mowers,
Cacophonous ensembles of horny avians,
And soft, reassuring drones of air conditioners.

I awaken from eight months of restless dreaming,
Greyness, a desaturated life,
Wrapped defensively in too many layers
And not enough air;
I stretch to find my tightness and resent
The lifetime lost to seasons that were not meant for me.

Although I am February's child, I regestate all the year
That is not Summer
And fill my lungs anew only as the sun slows its march to zenith
To bask in this fraction of the year
When I feel myself.