The Lost Glove

The Lost Glove

In the hush of a winter’s walk,
My glove fell silent in the snow’s soft talk,
One stayed behind where I had thought,
As I journeyed on, heedless, unsought.

By the river’s edge, where light does play,
In hopes to capture some fleeting ray,
Unnoticed, my lost glove lay astray,
Yet onward I trod, without delay.

My camera, indifferent to the mundane,
Captured not the glove, lost in vain,
Amongst a landscape of rocks, exposed,
And pebbles, polished, almost imposed.

But the chill crept in, my hands did feel,
A gentle reminder, a cold appeal,
To turn back, retrieve what I had cast,
Yet still, I journeyed on, my pace steadfast.

At the car, as I shed my coat’s embrace,
A solitary glove revealed its place,
The other, lost in the river’s bend,
Between where I began and where I’d end.

Not a costly glove, nor does it shield,
Against winter’s harshness, it cannot yield,
But what was dropped, what was left behind,
Left one glove orphaned, one to find.

So back I retraced, through fresh snow’s track,
To reclaim what I had let slip, lost, and lack,
A single black object against the white expanse,
Restored to me in a silent dance.

As I stooped low, to lift it from the ground,
Leaving behind a mark, a trace profound,
The lost glove found, in quiet reprieve,
In the silent solace of a winter’s eve.

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