Mismatched Socks

As a child, I used to dread

The days of dappled sunshine,

And what I perceived as expectations.

To brush my hair, find matching socks,

And leap into her springtime curls.

I felt anticipation instead

For the days of winter.

The humming fireplace, stack of library books,

The days my bicycle gathered dust.

Though as the years have passed,

I have found the balance of things.

The necessity and compassion

of all her invitations.

As I listen to the sounds of winter dawn,

Of sparkling frosts and blessing rains,

I accept her calling,

To rest, write, and breathe.

Those days will come again,

The sunshine beckoning through the pane.

Encouraging me to slip on mismatched socks,

And, revived, I shall do so in haste.