The sun shines brightly on this wicker chair.
It's warmer than I thought, too warm to
Contemplate retreat into my house, my cozy
Prison.  Sentenced there since late November,
As the daylight hours shrank and heat of this
Sort ceased to come, I revel in a newfound
Freedom.  Spring has sprung the prison's
Lock, and I'll remain outside its gate until
The chill of night returns, like guards,
To drag me back inside, yet, even then,
I won't despair.  The forecast for tomorrow
Sees this chair grow warm again.