The yellow grains stretch out beyond,
reaching the vast turbulent pond;
each radiates with heat.
Timid ginger steps I’m taking,
a smile through the blisters, faking;
because you lance my feet.
March through November are so kind,
they let my feet cool down, unwind,
out of the summer sweat.
February and December,
either side of you, remember
the sand is best when wet.
A Rime Couée attempt for the cruelest month prompt.