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.