Less Weatherproof

We stand in the rain

watching for our bus, and the firs

shake their needles

 

at a patchwork of snow.

It’s now we remind ourselves

why we left our jackets

 

in the trembling hands of mom,

stitched with worry.

Sleeve droop. Hood sag. Zipper

 

teeth wide and waiting.

It’s not so much that we think

we can fabricate the sun

 

with our wills or that

grey is a dark-shaded blue. No.

We just want to feel the sky

 

slide off the blanket of our skin,

to know wetness

without turning soggy inside.

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