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 sinceI misplaced my beloved holy glove.