I threw my aging gloves in the garbage,
and found one of them floating dead
the next time I went for a walk along the river.
It will never touch a hand again.
Was it trying to do its job of keeping things warm,
while failing the freezing water and
dying a solitary agony?
Was it looking for the other one,
wondering where it was
when most needed?
I am sitting on the river bank once again.
And now that my writing hand is cold, it is doing all the thinking
while my brain
is just stuck with a pen.
Am I feeling bad for a glove?
Or am I feeling bad because I did this?
I get up to shake away this petrification of mind, body, and soul
that is one and the same.
Maybe comfort won’t join me for today’s walk,
but I’m learning to live without that, too.
If my blood was feeling trapped inside me,
I know it’s now curiously exploring every corner.
I’m just going through the motions but
my hands are getting warm.
A silence of thin ice is about to break
and make the cut.