The Glove on the Library Steps

On the library steps in the spring rain;

One wool glove lay there like a small lost name;

The cherry trees shook pale light through the air;

And the wind turned the pages of no one's prayer;

I pause where the stone met the tender green;

Feeling the hush of a half-lived scene;

Oh, little cloud;

Where did you wander from?

From a hurried hand;

To the silence of sun;

In the bloom of spring;

In the rush of day;

You were left behind;

But not lost away;

Inside old novels slept in rows of dust;

Their cracked spines holding what we lose in trust;

I held you close by the door of the shelf;

Like a secret, the season that told itself;

I thought of a coat with one bare hand;

Of a small goodbye no one planned;

Oh, little glove;

Where did you wander from?

From a hurry head;

To the silence of sun in the bloom of spring;

In a rush of day;

You were left behind;

But not lost away;

Maybe your owner will come back here;

Breathless with laughter, with searching fear;

Maybe they'll find what the morning is;

And stitch a memory, a midden kid;

Or maybe they'll smile and let you be;

A tiny monument to what we leave;

Oh, little glove, where did you wander from?

From a hurried hint to the silence of sun;

In the bloom of spring, in the rush of the day;

You were left behind, but not lost away;

So I sets you gently by the weathered rail;

Where lilacs open and the bright birds sail;

A lost glove waiting in the springtime light;

Oh-oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh-oh;

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, Oh-oh-oh-oh;