I loved you in February’s clutches, when we were ready for snow to melt. I loved you in March when sodden grass appeared in spurts like evading pixies, but appeared nonetheless. I loved you in April when flowers poked through the earth and in May, when those buds began to bloom into moons and morning doves. I loved you still in June, when ecstatic voices raised above the school bells and papers were thrown from bus windows. In July I loved you more, and most, as April’s buds and May’s faces blistered under our faux-Arabian sun and we burned on Michigan sand. Feelings do not wane in August, as summer reached its last desperate and lively events. September, I still loved you, as we thought ourselves to be adults while we knew we were blissfully wrong. October saw me love you as the air and atmosphere turned to shades of wheat, pumpkin, and fallen leaves. I loved you in November when we started to see our breath in crisp air and reminisced about our Indian summer. December and we froze and thawed- it didn’t snow, but I loved you. Now it’s January, the first for another hour, and I love you as I love our late but welcome winter storm. February’s clutches will come again, different but the same in the way that I will love you.