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.