Woollen hand spiked on a cold iron rail,
Red and yellow and blue and green.
Unfound it sways,
Waving ghostlike in the wind
Once it belonged - one of a pair,
Warmed by small pink fingers,
Warming them in turn.
As a father once held his daughter’s tiny glove
And she held his with trust and love.
Where there was warmth,
Now there is frost.
Carelessly separated -
But which one is lost?
Beautifully evocative and conjures up the image of the flailing mitten
Lost mitten, good analogy, and well written, balancing sentiment with the questioning mind