Why not imagine I'm clearing away stars while I sweep?
The dishes could be squealing piglets wriggling about in the sink as if having a bath.
For every piece of laundry I fold, a bird hatches from an ordinary egg. Or perhaps the garments themselves are birds' wings I can crease and close, later to be opened for the purpose of flying.
Putting shoes into the closet is to make room for a flock of polka-dotted chickens. Bright ones that sing acapella instead of cluck.
What if by washing a single window I can bring eyesight to fifty blind pilgrims in a faraway village?
House chores aren't so bad.