Theft

Our things from the stolen satchel
must have been thrown, in disappointment,
in a pile at some quiet spot by the river:
the checked shirt,
the envelopes,
the red hairband.

They must be lying somewhere in the snow,
forever, unused.
Once in a while the envelopes stir.
The blue color weighs down the shirt.
When was the last time
we were so together?