It snowed all night on the opening flowers.
I got up early to scrape ice with an umbrella
off the windows, having packed up the winter
prematurely. Why am I this way? I always rush
the happy endings, smush the kids’ feet
into sandals because I think I might die
if I have to hunt down their socks, inside out
like squashed baby mammals, under a loveseat.
Once, when I was their age, my father’s lover
stood on the landing with wet hair. I screamed.
Then she flung herself down the stairs.
In the parlor, the piano preened like a fairytale.
Playtime in paraphrase. Spring
tumbling over all.