Ode to Socks

hand knit baby socks

what mother first knit socks for her baby?

Bare feet are great in the summer

in the tropics

and absolutely required on the beach.

Bare feet are sweet.

But

when the wind blows in from the North

and the sun retreats.

Sweet retires in defeat.

Socks!  Oh Socks!

What loving mother

eons ago

felt her little one’s feet, chilly and blue

and in a mother’s eloquent creativity

knitted that first pair of socks?

Did they fit perfectly?             who cares?

they transformed

those little blue icycles into hot little toasts

Did she have a name for them?

Did other mothers notice those

hot little toasts       and realize

she was on to something?

Did she become a local hero?

Oh Socks

you are essential

to every handsome man in white tie and tails

every football hero

every physics genius

every science innovator

every Nobel winner

every member of every hockey team    socker team

and

in every dream of every homeless man

Socks

Does it matter that you habitually stray?

chronically distancing yourself from your unwavering fans

into the conveniently numberless black holes

under beds

in laundry baskets

behind dressers?

Not one bit.

None of your flip disappearances matter.

We are devoted.

especially when the wind comes from the North

and the sun goes away.

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One Response to Ode to Socks

  1. Kristin Johnson says:

    Nice post, Iumi! It makes me think of my sock box, full of single socks whose mates have strayed. Will those mates return? Or are they really gone? Perhaps they are sitting at the bottom of my never-empty laundry pile, patiently awaiting a joyous reunion that continuously evades them (though it seems unlikely, it’s a nice thought).

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