The poem is a tiny scene caught mid-run. In the first line, "morning run" sets the speaker in motion, out in the cold early light. Then the eye lands on something small and discarded: a broken pair of gloves, half buried in snow. The speaker doesn't comment on it. We only see what they see.
That restraint is what gives the poem its feeling. The title, "Waste," tells us how to read the gloves: as something thrown away, no longer useful. Yet the speaker never lectures or complains. The snow covering the gloves feels quiet and a little sad, as if the object is slowly being erased. The gloves also hint at a person who was here and left them behind, though the poem doesn't say who.
The mood is hushed, cold, and thoughtful. A runner moves past, notices, and keeps going, and that brief glance is enough to make us think about what we discard and what the world quietly covers over.