Single Mitten
You're lost.
You
the fact forgotten,
you
the bramble-stolen path;
you
the lantern empty,
the coat that feeds the moth;
the one
whose voice was taken,
whose breath
could not get in,
whose absence
breaks the coupled;
the pocket-eaten mitten
that makes
its partner useless,
a rag
to be disposed;
you
the shadow flying,
you
the eye that's closed.
Lost.
~September 2018
Personal update: So many apologies for not reading or visiting these days, dear readers. I miss your poetry, and my own; all the voices which will no longer sing for me just now. My husband continues to fight the long defeat against his illness, but the time is getting short. I am hoping for some clarity on the other side, in which these frayed threads may be taken up again in some way. Til then, many thanks for all the concern, support and love you have shown me in this barren, foggy time.
Image: top: author unknown, via internet. All rights reserved to author.
Gulls, 1982, ©joyannjones