Tulips in Winter - (Reworked/Repost)

I nudge back the curtain of light blue just enough to achieve
A view of the park in the distance across the avenue.
This morning is boorish and over-gloomy, stranding me
With the only course of remaining inside for the day.
I suppose I should at least feel some modicum of shame for
My lazy demeanor, but no one is here to pass judgement upon
The disobedient state of tangled tresses spilling down my
Flannel robe in an abstract pattern of ringlets and knots.
The snow is spiraling softly just beyond the glass, and miniature
White mountains are beginning to crest against the fence line.
Only a few brave wanderers are about today, most with
Their faces and heads veiled tightly in winter bindings.
The man crossing the street must be Mr. Morrison, though
I certainly wasn't aspiring to catch sight of him today.
I watch him pass by on innumerable occasions as I nurse my
First cup of coffee and wait for my bath water to warm;
And at each instance of appraising his unreadable expression,
A fledgling curiosity toys with my thoughts causing me to
Imagine what might drive the loneliness in his long stride.
I never fail to back away from the window as he draws near
My block, afraid that his eyes might find my misplaced stare.
Sometimes I almost call out in greeting to him, but some
Invisible force refashions my words into cowardice unfailingly.
He has disappeared from my sight as the snowfall intensifies;
I chide myself once again for not having extended a warm hello.
The path of my thoughts merges with an unusual longing.
I pray for my heart to promptly collect its rhythm, but
It skips abruptly at the sound of three raps upon my door.
But who could be calling on this frigid Thursday morning?
I unbolt the chain and turn the knob, assuming that the postman
Has blown in early in anticipation of worsening weather.
My vision is confounded momentarily by the beauty of a spring-like
Bouquet, dappled with snowflakes and green sprigs of hope.
Mr. Morrison steps hesitantly inside at my stuttered invitation,
and with the most tender of touches, smooths back my gypsy hair.

Copyright Tina Jordan 2017 All Rights Reserved

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