The Tulips

On mornings like this,

When the sound of the rain pattering on the eaves

Has not yet ceased

I stand by the window 

And watch the tulips.

The goldfish in the bowl

A flickering illusion in scarlet

Mirroring them.

I take a sip from my cup

It smells of unsewn buttons on my favourite scarlet coat

The blush on your cheeks on your wedding day

The walls painted in brilliant fuschia

Of our newly purchased home

The maple leaves under our feet

On a certain autumn day.

The tulips, they are not mine.

But I know their language.

I can hear them sing.

'What song?' you ask.

I smile. 

You look at me with perplexed eyes.

The brown in them, fading into a misty glow.

We say nothing. The tulips say nothing.

Sunlight spills over from its petals

Our hands intertwined

I look at you

A beam of light has touched your face

You are humming your favourite song.