Wool Hats
By Elizabeth P. Glixman
It’s time to close the
windows,
take out the wool socks and blankets,
hunker down as if it is war.
The enemy is at our front door
holding the grenade of wind, rain,
and cold in his hand.
The hats are on the bed
knitted in autumn colors like the last leaves
lying on the ground beneath the maple tree
outside the bedroom window.
Wasn’t it May yesterday
when I shook the hats.
Pieces of crumbled leaves
and weariness fell on the bed
from cradling heads.
I put them away with moth-proof
packets of herbs.
They became closet prisoners.
New clothes, new
generations appeared
Swimsuits, dresses, t-shirts, and cargo pants.
Today these clothes of freedom are in jail
for the raw winter.
The orange, raw-umber red hats are in the light,
ready to cover heads.
The lambs of the spring are not yet born.
