on my calendar this year

you are 16 feet tall.
in september, when you exhale, the leaves fall.
you are full of stories,
and slowly i am too--
one by one, lining the crooks of my arms
with moments i shouldn't know about,
forgetting that once i used to
use my arms to pull myself up
onto rooftops
and tree branches
and sides of the pool--
instead of holding on.

in january, when you cry,
the snow melts. on bad days,
sometimes i can see grass,
dead and brown. it's too soon for spring.
you are as tall as the cherry tree
my mom planted 8 years ago,
you don't know what you're doing to the ground.

in july, when we go swimming in the lake,
the water level rises.
just enough that we lose our lunch,
which was left carelessly close to the shore.
i forget that i used to eat before swimming,
you are busy floating on your back, and do not notice.

all year, i will love you.
all year, i will wade through your rivers,
even when my rainboots have holes in them and
my feet are cold.
all year, i will tell you about
the weather
the candle my roommate just bought
the song i heard on the bus in the morning
what i made for dinner
what i would have made for you, if you were here too.

all year, i will wonder if the 10 and a half extra feet you have on me is making this too complicated.
i will wonder sometimes if it's better not to melt the snow;
if it's better to not even bother swimming, and just eat lunch at home in my kitchen.
all year, i will wonder if i should use my arms for climbing again,
and just let go.