Two black ski gloves
Reaching up from the short spring grass
While the morning breeze blows from the lake
Across the bright lawn of the park
Two thick black gloves
Grasping for the April sun
As it melts the last ice crystals
Of the final frost
How did they get there?
Did somebody drop them accidentally?
Were they thrown away in celebration?
Or were they placed there deliberately,
In thanks that their season is done?
A Canada goose walks up to them,
Honks at them, cocks its head, then moves on
To nibble the tender shoots of grass
That also reach for the sun.
The gloves do not see the goose;
Their fingers stretch up blindly.
The gloves do not see the sun,
Yet the sun warms them all the same.
Two black ski gloves.
Supplication or surrender?
A mute request for just one more day of Winter?
Or do even the gloves enjoy
The warmth of a sunny April morn?