allegory of the sock


I have discovered a small hole

in my favorite socks,

the grey socks, dressed with tiny

orange flowers, green leaves and stems;

their like will not come again.


I know what you will say

buy two pairs next time

buy three, or four, or five;

when you find something tiny

and perfect, always buy a spare.


But here is the truth, my dears,

my darlings. You can never buy

as many perfect grey socks

as your heart desires. In the end,

entropy always wins, the universe

spinning down in its final dance.


All we can do is cherish the socks

worn and tired, fraying and perfect;

all we can do is love them

with every beat of a reckless heart.