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Winter Gloves
- Southern Illinois University Press
- Chapter
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26 W I N T E R G LO V E S Snow falls this afternoon, sleet ticks against the tin stovepipe on the roof. When I step outside to walk into the white of its falling, I look up at the tall pine tops, then over to the chimney of this cabin, think how transitory the snow, how mortar and brick have outlasted storm and ice. I see how the pines remain true to themselves, their trunks straight, the tops shape-shifted by wind. What is true is somewhere between what I believe and what I say, what she tells me and how she means it— and we do not reach the middle path: her sash tied across her waist, my robe open for her. When I awaken this morning, after hard frost, I pull on the winter gloves she gave me last Christmas that hold a strand of her long white hair. ...