My toes wiggle,
seeking warmth in wool cocoons.
Mismatched patterns,
a rebellion against order.
Soft, worn fabric
hugs each foot,
whispering tales
of cosy old adventures.
Padding across cold floors,
muffled footsteps,
like mice tiptoeing
through a silent house.
Slouched around ankles,
or pulled up snugly,
a choice as personal
as picking a favourite cloud.
Hole in the heel,
a tiny window
to pale skin beneath,
adds character, not shame.
Thick soles,
guardians against
the chill of hardwood,
the shock of tile.
In them, I'm a child again,
sliding down hallways,
giggling at the swoosh-swoosh
of fabric on smooth surfaces.
They're not meant for the outside world,
these inhabitants of drawers and bed corners.
Their realm is made of blanket forts
and lazy Sunday mornings.
As the rain taps on my windows,
my sock-clad feet tap back like,
a secret Morse code
between me and the weather.
Comfort isn't always grand or glossy.
Sometimes, it's threadbare and pilling,
stretched out of shape
but perfectly moulded to you.
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Poems for a Rainy Day
PoesíaThis enchanting collection of poems celebrates the quiet magic of rainy days, inviting readers to curl up with a warm cup of tea and explore the beauty of grey skies. From misty mornings to stormy nights, each poem is a soft blanket for the soul, e...
