Ascending into chilly alpine air,
Beneath the lift line, I could barely see
Through blowing snow, a purple object there:
A glove half-buried underneath a tree.
Its palm was facing upwards, fingers flexed,
As if in search of that unlucky hand
Whose owner was indubitably vexed,
To force bare flesh the winter to withstand.
Until today, I thought that a right glove
Would sorrow when it went without its left,
But now I understand the right’s true love;
Without each other, each remains bereft-
I think that frigid skier would accede:
If you’re a hand, then glove is all you need.