Fate
for Pablo Neruda

A small hole has opened
beneath my foot,
in the dense woven black
of my cotton sock.

I see startled whiteness—
my granular skin,
clean as a peeled
winter onion.

I skin off the sock
with its tiny new eye,
converse of growth
on white potatoes.

I think to fling it
wherever things go,
worn out of service,
imperfect now;

but, seeing my fingers
bearing their marks—
alluvial strata
of weather and woe—

wound round the toe
of the aged sock,
this moves me to find
a spool of black,

to seek a sleek steel,
(slender remedy)
to thread its clear eye.
To blink. To retry.

Leslie Schultz

I have been thinking a lot about socks lately, as I knit along on a new one most days. Yesterday, I discovered a hole in a (mass-produced) sock I was wearing, and that led to this poem. After I wrote it, I thought of two favorite poems, this one by Pablo Neruda, and then this one by Ted Kooser–with clear evidence that his spare style is appreciated in China!

Check out other participants in the NaPoWriMo Challenge!

Hope to see you tomorrow! Leslie