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.
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?
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, 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.