The Ice Cream Truck

The ice cream truck is approaching in the dark. My heart is beating; it's been a long time since summer. Now is no time for interludes in the park. Parents won't buy my melodrama. A taste of vanilla on my lolling tongue, I cry, remembering that I'm no longer four. And reprimanded by my mother's loud bawl... 'Close your larynx now. Or else you might be hung? ' The ice cream truck's whimsy music does fade. And mother has turned into an ice maiden. But when spring arrives in a cascade, of falling rose blossom, she's spoon-laden. With a raspberry sauce, cheeks like rosy apples. She softens, like ice cream, and cracks a smile. Breaking wafers; sprinkles-giggles then rattles with laughter, begins to behave—infantile.