I bought myself a pair of

leggings

which is fluffy puffy inside

with wool overload,

the leggings as thick

as dictionaries.

I slipped my legs

into them

as though into

two

cylinders

knitted

with threads of

twilight

and goatskin.

Violent leggings,

my legs were

two sausages made

of heat,

all black:

my legs were honored

in this way

by these normal

leggings.

They were

so cool

for the first time

my legs seemed to me

unbelievable

like two well-done

sausage, or at least

medium

of that oven

heat,

of those glowing

leggings.

Nevertheless,

I resisted

the sharp temptation

to store them in the closet

as schoolgirls

not cover their body,

as learned people

keep

warm for themselves,

I resisted

the popular style

to not wear them

underneath

dresses

and have bare legs

shown.

Like hikers

on the ground,

not on the mountains,

who hand

over the well-prepared oxygen jar

to some imprudent and reckless

“self-called experienced” people

And let them breathe it

Reluctantly.

I stretched out

my legs

and put on

the magnificent

leggings

and then my socks.

The moral

of my ode is this:

warm is twice

warm

and what is good is doubly

good

when it is a matter of a pair of thick leggings

made of wool

in winter.