The Island

Aug 31, 2016

You cannot know her until she closes for the season, until the traffic lights turn to blinking orange strobes down the wide path of the boulevard. You cannot know her until the seagulls regain their kingdom, until the beaches are reclaimed by sandpipers scurrying along the shore.

You cannot love her until you experience the ocean’s anger, until you watch her shores battered by wave after restless wave. You cannot love her until you witness the union between ocean and bay.

You cannot become one with her until you stand beneath the beauty of her light, frozen puffs of air escaping from your mouth, not a soul in sight but a lone seagull perched on the rocks below you.

To love her is to know her in her darkest hour, to feel her strength against the fury of a storm.

To love her is to rejoice in her rebirth, to watch her reclaim what is hers.

To love her is to never leave her, no matter how far you may roam.

To love her is to always stay true to her, because forever and always she will be home.

That is what it means to love The Island.

Becki Forlenza-Adams

Saratoga Springs

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