dry land

a cold front
moves in. moves out.
what to wear
each day has become a mystery.
a stretch
of sun,
of eighty degrees
isn't
happening.
boots, coats, hats,
scarves.
the grey wet
of spring goes on
as we
row forward,
two oars in the water,
our shoulders
bent
in pulling us to
blue skies and dry
land.