I was at the Salvation Army today and found a very fun-looking anthology called Clotheslines: A Collection of Poetry & Art, which features poems by mostly well-known poets, alongside images of various works of art, all clothing-themed. (Instantly made me think of Anita Lahey's fine collection of poems, Out to Dry in Cape Breton, and Anita's fascination with laundry lines.)
We've been having problems with the heat in our apartment, viz. there hasn't been enough of it. Part of the problem is that we're on the ground floor and our floor is a thin layer of laminate or tile over the concrete ceiling of the unheated parking garage. Fortunately, my mother (if you want to see pictures of me before heredity and hormones took care of my hair, click here) makes the most wonderful woolen socks, of which I have several pairs. She doesn't knit these commercially, as no one would pay what they're worth in terms of the labour that goes into them.
Flipping through Clotheslines tonight, I came across Pablo Neruda's Ode to My Socks, as translated by Robert Bly. Very appropriate poem for my present situation, and I thought I'd read it for you.