I walked along the torrid road and found
a dusty mitten lying near as if
it always had been sitting on the ground,
expecting me to rescue it. From cliff
to rocky mountain cliff, I don’t know if
I’d ever see a mitten quite like this.
The mitten, soft it seemed at glance, but stiff
it actually was. How cruel, oh how remiss
to treat the mitten with such little bliss.
It would be fine if it were only mine;
The past has taught me though—into abyss
The small red mitten falls, for I am blind.
The best, for poor red mitten, weary me,
is to continue looking to the sky.