They say it began in the age before tumble-dry,

when gods still meddled in the laundry,

and mortals feared borax.

Argyle, minor deity of pattern and warmth,

wove his devotion into a single pair

diamonds aligned like prayers,

a geometry of care and cold mornings.

But the Fates were mischievous.

One cycle too many through the Whirlpool of Time,

and one sock slipped the spindle,

vanished into that parallel realm

where odd gloves and USB sticks go to die.

Centuries passed.

Priests of the Basket sang hymns of lint,

the faithful matched, folded, and mourned.

Still…

no sign of the lost.

Until one day,

a modern pilgrim (tired, under-caffeinated,

sorting whites from hope)

felt a static whisper

between polyester sheets.

There it was,

the Sock of Argyle,

creased but immortal,

bearing faint celestial diamonds

like constellations misremembered.

The pilgrim held it aloft,

and for a moment the dryer light

flared like dawn.

Some say wearing it grants symmetry,

others say it hums softly in the drawer,

yearning for its mate.

But we know the truth:

the gods never left.

They’re just

in the machine,

on delicate cycle,

waiting for us

to remember

to check the twisty filter thingy.