2007

Right up here at the head of January,
on this very first day of the beginning
of our new beginning, I declare
this to be the year of my socks.

This will be the year my man stockings
finally recognize themselves,
make some changes
and get in on the revolution of me.

I will be burning all my white athletic ones
because, I'm not.
Or maybe I'll spike them on barbed wire --
bleached and dead to me.

This year, only colored socks that
have lost their mate get picked.
Come morning, they get the nod
because they feel good, stretched
up my calves under the shadowy
ends of all my pants.

This may be the year I give up shorts
and learn about modesty, mystery.

I will only wear socks that are
glad to celebrate each other,
socks simply thankful to be out of
the drawer and into the day.

They will be pairs only because
I've called them, made them such --
one for the left and one for the right.

I resolve to move with feet so full
of grace that they're wrapped in it.
Bright, striped, wooly and argyled:
feet washed and socked with bold love.
Yes, so full they walk that way.