A Pair of Gloves

A PAIR OF GLOVES
for Stormy Lady's Competition
October 2009

They were lying on the table
like two pieces
from a summer puzzle.
I could almost
see them breathing,
in and out,
like the swelling breast
of the ocean.
I could hear the LAUGHING gulls
above their frothy crests, and,
inside those gloves, I knew,
were the warm grasses
of August and the harsh,
sunlit COSTUME of a
YELLOW afternoon.
There were seashells,
filled with the MUSIC of
golden seashores, and
a FESTIVAL of popsicles:
Cones scooped
with mountains of vanilla
dotted with RED cherries, sticky
drips of water melon,
and a HARVEST of
backyard sprinklers
sliced with bare legs
scattered along the
edge of the sea,
running smoothly
down each sheath,
where my fingers would slide
like pale bodies
through the ORANGE sand
onto the shore.
Gloves, sprouting
with butterflies
and daisies:
Sizzling cement
and sunburn:
A plush, humid
shield against the
cold and brittle winter.