Homeless

The
glove
I found
by the ditch
is yours. You didn't
see it when it fell. You were busy
gathering shot weed, dandelion leaves or sidling
into my yard to eat the last late lettuce, and didn't notice that your hands were cold,
your fingers brushing soil as memory sailed far to
Iowa where earth first found you
and you learned to grow.
Pretend you're
there now,
warm,
full.