In March,
It rests forgotten. Abandoned, neglected, alone. You
used to visit It, befriended It once, but You’d
always leave and forget. Left It asking for You
to return. But You were two on-and-off lovers, except You
didn’t even know Its name.

In April,
You remember that You need to bend Your knees. It calls to You,
so this time You answer, walk to It. It listens as You
tell It Your woes. Anchor deployed.

In May,
You almost forget once again, but You
return. The sun is now warm enough for You
and It to soak it up, so You and It
do so together. The Adirondack chairs have returned and You
begin to look for new life.

In June,
You visit It many times. Shared salt water becomes Your
currency. It gives You wind when You
need Your thoughts blown away. You
embrace the dizzying nature of the place, with
maple leaves inducing a welcoming vertigo. You
let It speak to You when You can’t listen. You
feel It when It gives nothing for You to feel.

In July,
It attracts Others, but You don’t want to share Your
friend, Your caretaker. It is the beams that hold up
a house on the hill; those wooden supports can only belong
to one home. You asked It to build them under You.
Banter and smiles for the Others, but You
wish they would drown.

In August,
the sand burns Your toes and sun reddens Your
nose. Hot air begs Your lungs not to breathe.
Miniscule waves remind You that Your
ears still work. Minnows nibble on Your flesh and flies feast
on Your sweat. It’s what you need.

In September,
You wonder if You can still float. You
can’t feel Your arms or legs, but It
is a beacon for limbless buoys and people alike.
Each grain of sand worth the same as a
fiddler crab, dead heron, browning stalk, or You.

In October,
You visit It alone. No one else cares for Your
place. It’s Yours in rain and cold and warmth and light.
It’s Yours.

In November,
a chill tries to keep You away from It, but no force can keep You
and It apart. You no longer go in Its waters, but You
sit cross legged in Its mud.

In December,
cold air hurts Your lungs in the way that the heat used to. But You
still remember that You can’t live without each other, so You
Keep coming back. Ice lines the shore in a way
that no magic could produce. Fractals hold each granule of sand together.
Fractals hold You and It together.

In January,
pink sunsets could be the only reason You
would come back, except the sky doesn’t know what It
means to You. Even gray days and lightless nights
provide no barrier between You and It.

In February,
nothing happens. But You prepare Yourself to start anew with It.
Another cycle awaits, news months incoming. You
will walk on water in a few weeks. You will come to It
even when You don’t need it.

In March,
I come back again. I have new eyes, new body, new perspective.
I know It will never be forgotten again. It gave and I took, and I
don’t need It anymore, but I want It.
And It will forever welcome Me back.