Socks

 

Socks

 

Among my waking thoughts today were socks.

Not just any socks

But a particular pair of socks.

Warm, gray, wool socks

Lying on the floor next to my bed.

 

Below, down the stairs,

In the kitchen, the coffee maker beckoned.

This morning it would be robust coffee.

Not a medium roast,

But a roast worthy of pairing with thick wool socks.

 

Somewhere it is written,

“Having food and raiment, let us be content.”

From the congregation I respond,

“Having warm wool socks and robust coffee,

Let us also be content.”

 

For those who can receive it,

There is a sacramental warmth with

Coffee and socks, an appreciation of

The basic gifts of life, and an acknowledgement

That I don’t need as much as I think I need.

 

I have read and have been told that the homeless

Need good socks. All souls need a home,

All people need a home,

All feet need a home.

Socks are not to be taken lightly.

 

Like many I have pondered the mystery

Of socks gone missing.

I freely admit that in my sock drawer are

Socks awaiting the unlikely

Return of their mate.

 

In that same drawer are socks that probably

Should not be there, their time has

Come and gone; or more precisely

Their fabric and elastic have long since

Shown any sign of sock-life.

 

Should I be ashamed to admit that

A pair or two in the drawer are

Guaranteed to work themselves

Down below my ankles and into my shoes

Should I wear them?

 

People used to “darn” socks.

Perhaps this was more than simply being frugal

And good stewards? Perhaps it was also

An act of remembrance, pondering

Where one’s feet have been?

 

I’m not sure that it makes any sense to

Rejoice in great possessions,

Or to glory in great travels, or to

Find our security in investment and bank accounts.

But I am convinced that God is pleased when we are thankful for socks.

 

Robert L. Withers, 2020

Written wearing warm wool grey socks, while drinking robust coffee, with my dog Lily by my side.