Beyond the porch, hydrangea weave a blue and purple skein,
your fingers spin naked kisses on the wheel –
wool leaves a honey smell of earth on your hands.
I listen to rain the wheel makes.
I taste crabs, tide, when you say here, feel this, it is so soft
and beautiful, I say is this for Pablo's socks?
Yes, I can see as you spin, you will then knit this yarn
into loaves and fishes. His feet, so white, will know
salvation and charity, they will be an origin story, feet
that create the world like Enkidu and Gilgamesh –
wild man, bull man, who beats his shield before the gods,
his song immortal. If only I had such socks!
Dear wife, I see a cortege of right whales and topaz,
hawksbills and vole-song emerge braided from your hands, yet
when I try on the socks, they are heavy as iron. My voice
sours, I bark like a dog, my words falling down stairs
like malediction, take them, please, I feel silly
In them, they are bluebirds of misery. I
peel myself off, skin turned inside out, hamper rim-shot
my soul – I will be sweat washed from Sunday's laundry,
then drain and spread and seep down through sandy loam,
where I am salt that feeds the flower beds under our awning
and stain your lips again
*Ode to My Socks by Pablo Neruda
For Shay’s Word Garden