Saturday, January 25, 2014

Gloves


hands curl into tiny fists to fight against the chill
my mother buys me gloves I never seem to wear
I walk to school against the wind in this land without a hill

every year there's a new pair, or lectures I hear still
hats and hoods I keep, of course, to protect my ears from the air
but my bare hands are hidden deep within my sleeves against the chill

maybe it's just stubbornness that insists on this fight against her will
the feel of gloves is suffocating; more than I will bear
I walk against the wind in this land without a hill

the war is inevitable, an obligation we fulfill
sometimes she waits for me as I clomp my heels coming down the stairs
fingers already inside my sleeves, ready for the chill

maybe, though, I was just enthralled by my own newfound free will
my mother's words I only know in retrospect as care
but then, we raced the wind in the land without a hill

there are things I forget, you see, moments lost to time until
fall's leaves are long gone, all the branches gray and bare
then I remember little fists curled against the waiting chill

then I hide my bare hands inside my sleeves
I'm still the girl in the land without a hill.

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