When life turns
tumultuous twisting and churning,
Which way should I go, which way is up? …Squirl!
What does the sock experience when washed?
Does it like the squeezing, rubbing, and spinning?
The end will come
when the dirt is gone,
But to be of use is to collect stains and stench.
Every worn cloth is subjected to this carnage,
If not now, then after goodwill recycles.
I pray that my weave
withstands the friction,
Holes or frays render harsh judgement from the maker.
Nor will filthy rags escape this fate,
They are tossed out and languish in the rubbish heap.
No cloth can wring
the filth from its fibers,
It must accept the help of the holy washer.
No fee, no soap just a simple please,
The washer washes as soon as you believe.
The weaver is a willing worker,
Talents are given to all cleaned by the washer.
With dexterous fingers the voids are filled,
The threads of life knitted a new.
To know the weaver
lends a new perspective,
A strength and desire to fulfill the calling.
What rag should fear the washer,
What is there to hide from the weaver.
Once washed of filth
and woven anew,
A raiment of fine clothing we are.
One day my cloth will be eternally clean,
Oh, the joy of knowing this turmoil must end.
For now, I feel unworthy to be a sock,
Or to touch the feet of the maker.
Even so, when the drawer is opened,
I scream “Pick Me!”