It's officially here. The moment I've been waiting for and dreaming of all summer. In celebration of this delicious moment, I bought two brand new pairs of...woolly socks.
Here's a wonderfully evocative poem for the kickoff of "woolly sock season" by one of my favorite poets, Donald Hall.
Orange Knee Socks
When he lies in the night away from her,
the backs of his eyelids burn.
He turns in the darkness as if it were an oven.
The flesh parches and he lies awake
thinking of everything wrong.
In the morning when he goes to meet her,
his heart struggles at his ribs
like an animal trapped in its burrow.
Then he sees her running to meet him,
red-faced with hurry and cold.
She stumbles over the snow.
Her knees above orange knee socks
bob in a froth of the hems
of skirt and coat and petticoat.
Her eyes have not shut all night.