Sunday, January 18, 2015


When in under 3 hours have I had a rest,
a moment free of fear or worry?
When you have so few pairs
of matching socks every day takes longer
is a hunt that consumes, that overwhelms.
My life is perfect but I have no socks,
my life is awful but I have no socks,
my mind is healthy but I have no socks,
my mind is [lacuna, lacuna, whateva].

What witches in white girlhood have my dreams embraced?
Is Anne, is Caddie, is Heidi? A witch, that is, am I?

But back to the socks. How close a match is matched?
When my mother was my age was it so?
Did childbirth pair her socks for her? If I had a child
would I fold my clothes? Or hide my piles from baby eyes?
Whose mother washed the towels most? Not mine
or did she?

If in the woods the eons of hours of words I've known
and then forgot entrance me in the waning of my youth
is that the thing of which I dreamed when reading
Roger Lancelyn Green?

But where in fantasy are socks? The hero always has a pair,
I guess, already folded up he [he!] has no time to match
the laundry bugs that crawl about.