The Glove

Such humdrum daily treks

From the subway

To my apartment

Same time

Same route

Same everything

Until…

Suddenly

Passing a bus stop just beyond the underpass

Wanting to mean something

More than just covering the hands

A woman’s black leather glove appeared

Someone

Propped it atop a fire hydrant

Thinking perhaps it was dropped

Exiting a bus or cab

Surely, the owner would be looking for it

Passing it by for the next three dreary days

The skies finally opened

Floating meandering snowflakes

To the ground

It appeared

Someone else had turned the glove over

Allowing a few crystals of white

To settle within the fingers now partly closed

Next day…

More snow

Same glove

Now almost a fist

Grasping the collected white

Something held me there

Staring at the fist closing on…

What?

Beauty?

Cold?

Memory?

How?

Such questions of the unexplainable

Seemed normal

Here where flame and ash rising

From trash barrels

Warmed hands of the homeless

Until they seemed to fall asleep

Standing up

As the glove curled further

My feelings deserved pondering the mystery

Here among so many

Unexplained perils of enduring

Where imagination is often the only survivor

Blowing into my naked hands

Something urged me to move on