Pyre

I'm pulling off my jeans, stained with salt, cat food and horse tears for the 200th time this winter and as I'm peeling them past my ankles clogged with thick woolen socks, I'm vowing to the hellish ice age that descended that it's battle time. The war drum has a hole in it from me hitting it so hard. Someone, sound the sun cannons and load your barefoot images of blooming dandelion and oxygenated pegged bedding blowing in the breeze.

Let us pile the clothes worn outside to feed beast and bird into a funeral pyre of winter, lighting it with a torch so powerful that it cannot return. I'm clawing my way out of the frozen dirt. Damned be the beauty of snowflakes and blizzards, I am swimming for the sun. See me kicking my ten toed feet for all their worth in the gliding bliss of a mega pod of Pacific dolphins.  See me begging for a glass of quenching lemonade. See my shoulders, tinged brown from the sun.

 Light it and watch it burn.  Add your token offerings to the fire.

We're lighting this one and it's going high...