March 31: In Memory of a Lost Glove

Ascending into chilly alpine air,
Beneath the lift line, I could barely see
Through blowing snow, a purple object there:
A glove half-buried underneath a tree.

Its palm was facing upwards, fingers flexed,
As if in search of that unlucky hand
Whose owner was indubitably vexed,
To force bare flesh the winter to withstand.

Until today, I thought that a right glove
Would sorrow when it went without its left,
But now I understand the right’s true love;
Without each other, each remains bereft-

I think that frigid skier would accede:
If you’re a hand, then glove is all you need.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s