However we define the madness

It's freezing out here, though wind's best for drying on days      
like this, where sun is snug deep behind fort walls of cloud.      
My fingers ache from this cold and damp.      
They slow as if they're hypothermic, and all my blue pegs      
     
keep breaking. Only blue, I don't know why. My murder      
of crows is back as well. They circle and caw every time I step out--      
maybe they're trying to tell me something.      
Goddammit, these blue pegs are useless.      
     
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There's an odd romance in washing glass with a cloth      
instead of the defined shape of a sponge or a brush.      
Dishwater can wrap a cloth like ribbon swimming thick in limbo,      
as it would a mermaid's hair, gathering and letting go;      
     
And oh, the drama! the anima lost in its being pulled up      
from the liquid to drip its soapy dollops on the surface.      
I plunge it back in, swirl it round to my humming.      
It does dance a little bit like Cinderella, doesn't it?      
     
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I mingle with chatting moms outside of school while waiting      
for their brats to show; my tips are always best for stains      
and how to lift them from the rug - or anything that needs a scrub.      
Quick casseroles are how to feed a hungry lot on Fridays      
then they're also easy-serve for lunches on the weekend.      
     
At night, the cogs keep running through all of the      
important things.      
Half asleep. I never dream.      
     
....................    
   
     
Don't kill spiders in the kitchen,      
they're only there to catch the flies      
and don't forget to dust the high shelves...      
     
baseboards as well.      
     
The crows will tell me more tomorrow.      
     
And buy more pegs      
do not buy blue...