The Glove Poem by Phillip Alan Green
The Glove
A glove upon a wall,
Quietly it remains,
For a passing child,
So innocent and small.
Through all the elements it waits,
Cold, longing for the warmth,
Of a young childs touch,
As it sits next to the gate.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Topic(s) of this poem: elements,longing
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8/6/2026 8:17:37 AM # rel_20260803T153344Z_4267e77
