The angels demand I gather snowdrops.
They say: Snowdrops have to be picked at sunrise.
All the way, you must carry a piano on your back.
However, they forget to give me either a basket or sheet music.
At least, I have a pair of gloves;
grandma’s lace ones–
they make my hands invisible.
(I don’t want the snowdrops to know
the hands that take their lives.)
To banish these cold feet
I wear boots crocheted from sweet nothings.
Words of affection, which I thought forgotten,
that still make me blush.
In this game
of little deaths
all the piano notes
bear the color
of old-growth forests.