Ode to Socks

The clothesline contraption is like an
Umbrella inside out;
A pole
Grown from the ground
With four metal tree limbs and
Twangy cable between.

Ancient clothespins quiver in a spring breeze
Still wet from recent rain.

In a day already lived
Small tennis shoes shuffle on the
Drizzled grass.
Fingers with nails smaller than the end of a pencil
Grasp a peg.
Fumble with damp fabric.

On a cobwebbed line a sock is hung to dry.
Then another.  The lowest cable reached on tiptoe.
A grin on ruddy child-cheeks.

On this day the rain fills boots left
On a sopping deck and scares away the birds.
A lesser-sized mind can still conceive of flying.
Brains grow and skulls expand and we learn how to lie
But we lose how to dream.

Under small feet it would seem
The world moves at startling paces.
Large eyes widen easier when our gaze is directed
At everything.  With wonder–
Slurping the world.

Striped socks cover childhood’s feet
To keep them warm.
Mismatched because it’s more interesting that way
And dirty because they’ve been playing.



Artwork by Claude Monet “Le Jardin de l’artist a Giverny”

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