I take secret delight in the act of pulling on
fresh socks in the morning – closest in sensation
to the unfurling of new leaves in spring
when the breeze carries away the Earth’s weight;
for a moment gives the synaptic branches
and flowering thoughts the joyous flight of birds.
I sit on the straw-packed bed - marvel
at the ability to bend - always lift my left leg first,
the way of the rising sun, place the fresh sock
on the toes that wriggle, cheeky worms
to the early bird. Then the right, homage to the 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, a machine frozen
in-between locomotion, need a start to set
the parts on their unswerving path again.
When the socks are up, their bands tight
around tanned calves, I move to the window, push
my head beyond the curtain and call
to the brightening day as if still the sapling that shakes
golden leaves into a forest's whispered dream.