Someone lost a glove last week...
during the winter storm.
When the snow melted, the glove was there,
black cotton fingers limp, in the mud.
I passed the glove on my way to the park
and thought how sorry someone would be
when he reached into a pocket to find only one,
shaking his chapped hand...
patting the other pocket...
tucking both bare hands
deep in his coat, squeezing the lone glove in his fist.
What good was one
without the other?
The next day someone had moved the lost glove,
sticking it high on a garden stake, marking the spot
where a new tree had been planted last summer.
The glove slumped, its fingers sagging loosely.
Then the wind lifted,
the fingers fluttered,
a half-hearted wave...
That night, I passed the glove once more.
My dog strained against her collar,
pulling me through the fog.
The glove was reaching skyward...
toward the hidden moon.
I dared not look back.
My own hands inside my gloves,
clinging to the leash,
I'd hate to lose a glove on a foggy winter night.