She remembers the poem
“Ode to My Socks, ” by Pablo Neruda
like you remember seeing an old friend
a few years ago;
The whimsy, like going back in time
to a better you,
right in the middle of those beloved memories.
” I would be
The perfect pair of handmade socks, ”
imagining the colors,
woven together like the simplest magic.
Simple is often the best sort of thing,
when things are anything but.
The old friends will never visit,
she made sure of that,
by trying to encourage them to live better.
They weren’t that sort of friends which,
means they weren’t ever friends at all.
The twilight and goat skin,
Two immense blackbirds,
snagged on what she supposed was love, but,
being the drooping blossom
of a seed sprouted in rock,
she has the tendency to mistake stone
for fertile soil.
It is an easier mistake to make
than someone who was loved as a child
And it has come to pass
that the one golden thread
but time moves ever onward
with no regard for requests to pause
so that one might stop her soul from unraveling
as the result
of another mistake.
Perhaps she’ll have to settle
for being a metaphorical pile
of lovely yarn;
So many things it has been
or could yet become,
instead, lying on the floor
taking comfort in its own shapeless vibrance.
after so many times,
you take what you can get.