The sun put its lips

on the tip of an eastern bent tulip petal

and just like that

I become pregnant with Rapunzel,

If I had a husband I could sell him for a pair of magic scissors,

cut this moment out of the morning,

paste it on every page of a scrapbook,

entitle it flower,

give my wheelbarrow to the farmer’s wife who kisses her man in spite of his 5:00 shadow,

shove my willow basket back in the cupboard next to ungathered forget me nots,

Cut every unhappy thing that could have killed me but wouldn’t have

out of my life,

sit on a little stool,

refuse to stand up,

entitle it life