Saturday, August 15, 2015

Hand and Glove

At five years old, I told 
the neighbor kids my beloved 
gloves were a personal gift, 

each finger yarn-faced, stitched
by my Heavenly Mother, herself.
Told my friends She’d fashioned them 

to fit my hands folded snuggly and tight 
in time for winter. No one believed 
the story. I lost the first glove 

before spring, and kept the other 
until my index wiggled bare, 
through the hole at the tip. I gave up 

those faces made for me, forgot my gift 
and the self-spun yarn I’d believed.
I grew into something I suppose 

is a woman. Who can tell? And Oh!
I have been so cold the many seasons since 
I misplaced my beloved holy glove.

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