Where some unmatchible ideas
tying missed-match pairs
of complexities, easily
--Repairs of missed-matched socks
wear well on chill days when
darning's all we find
and nobody knows how any more.
Thread bare heels and toes
don't send the mender's dancing thimble
through loops and whirls
at fantasy ***** with
grand pianos and flutes and strings,
and angels in mismatched socks,
singing of somedays like
these, we imagine.
Still, we can.
Souls clad in well mended mismatches,
skate on grandma's wooden floor,
as we recall the deed,
and the equipment.
Grandkids are coming today,
why else would I wax floors and imagine
polishing them, with socks rescued
from uselessness after the other one
was carried off to sockland
through the dryer.
All dryers in America have portals to sockland.
And no one knows how to ****, but
we can redeem stray socks and and and
rescue the tradition of waxing wooden floors,
shining the souls of the trees with the souls of our feet,
trippin' with hippie granny, who married the wolf,
who uses the same portal to sockland for ****.
Just once, everybody should paste wax a wooden floor,
and polish it in mismatched socks, with
five, six and seven year old princesses, (some missing teeth)
none of whom ever skated on tree hearts before.
Or you can imagine. It meets the need for reminding,
common to us all, as time goes by.
Had a grand father's day. Such a fine idea for a holiday, from my POV.