Each new day
Most of all I enjoy
the act of pulling on
fresh socks in the morning –
closest in sensation
to the unfurling of new leaves
in spring when the breeze c
arries away the Earth’s weight,
gives the branches and thoughts
for a moment
the flight of birds.
I sit on the bed -
marvel every morning
at the ability to bend -
lift my left leg first,
always left, the way
of the rising sun,
place the sock on the toes
that wriggle, cheeky worms
to the early bird.
Then the right,
homage to the setting light,
Night – mysterious, painful,
a lover and parent.
Sometimes I freeze
in the act, not wishing to end
it; Geppetto must push my shoulder
to move me again
as if I frozen in locomotion
need a start to set
the parts on their path again.
When the socks are up,
their bands tight around
tanned calves, I move
always to the window,
push my head beyond the curtain
and call to the day
as if still the sapling that shakes
golden leaves into dreams.
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