Poetry

Lost Property

for DTMV

 

Winter is the season

when often, quite

without rhyme or reason,

lost belongings return.

Beloved coats are found

with cashmere scarves

that warm and wind around

draughty ears and throats.

Desperate fingers thrust

down in pockets to serve

a snivelling nose that must

be blown—they bring to light

a lace-edged square

of cotton, long forgotten, soft

and quietly folded there

as if it never went missing.

Odd socks and gloves appear

in corners of crowded drawers,

for all the world like dear

friends, waiting to make a permanent pair.

The reunions bring a sweet relief

like the thrill when a homing pigeon flies in,

restoring his mate’s mislaid belief

in love and the law of the roost.

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