Last evening we had a small gathering around the fire pit to read poetry. I started with Pablo Neruda’s Ode to Ironing. My Beloved asked if there was an ode to shoelaces, and thus began an odyssey. For the rest of the evening, I read nothing but odes to shoelaces.
We started with Ode to a shoelace, followed by Ode to a shoelace, and Ode to a shoelace. Next there was Ode to a fraying shoelace, Ode to the dangly shoelace, and My shoelace. Then, Ode to an aglet, and Shoelaces.
There were others, too, but I can’t find them this morning. But I’ve found many others this morning, ranging from the silly to the profound to the semi-literate.
Perhaps I’ll write an ode myself.