Thou sproingy cushy softness lying quiet,
Thou lengths of stripey goodness in a skein,
Thou colors burst forth in colorful riot.
Wild Thing, how canst I express my anticipation?
What delights await my dpns?
What glories will reveal themselves?
As the sock grows on yon needle,
Patterning of glorious hues!
What mad barber-poling! What struggles to stripe!
Heathering like the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods spun this? What rovings loth?
What singles and plies? What wild ecstasy?
Wait — I think I can hear something. Yup. It is John Keats, rolling in his grave.
Here’s my sock in progress in my Wild Thing sock yarn.
It looks suspiciously like it is going to become a kneesock, doesn’t it? I’m pretty darn sure I’ve got enough. I’ve been doing increases up the leg and I’m thinking I’m now within a few inches of completion.
This colorway consists of shades of golds and burgundies — so not my colors. But I love this sock with such depth and passion that it inspires me to write very bad poetry.
I deliberately chose a colorway that was way outside my usual palette, just for grins. That’s one of the things that is great about knitting socks — it’s a way to knit with colors that you usually don’t wear because they make you look like crap.
I knit on this sock on train platforms and trains. When I enter a brightly-lit train from a dimly-lit platform, the colors of this sock leap out at me and I feel a flutter of joy at the sight. This sock just makes me so incredibly freaking happy.
My momma is a nut-job. Just sayin’.