It gets up your nose
when you roll the kayak,
gets in your blood after summers at the pond.
It will always call to you,
will always know when you return.
Maybe there’s a splinter from the dock, still
deep in your heel, a small sliver
that seemed healed over. Maybe once a year
the spot reddens, pinches a little, a signal
to pack your shorts and bathing suit,
get in your car and head back
where even in midsummer, it gets dark
early, save for the light the pond makes.