Spring Morning

To The Lady on the Train,

There are those who would rush Spring to get from bitter Winter to Summer with its languid, sunny days, warm weather, and rolling flash of thunderstorms that resonate in your chest and excite the heart. And sometimes she will oblige and get out of the way. 

This year though she has lingered, relishing the slow process of waking up. There is still the smell of snow along the fence and the grass is frost tipped each morning. 

My love, too, has lingered this morning. The dawn has not yet broken but will soon when first she stirs from slumber; there is no rush.  There is no need to abandon the pillows, the sheets, the duvet that have warmed her, or at times felt too hot and been cast aside only to be gathered a little while later. She now throws aside the duvet at last and swings her legs over the edge of the bed to plant bare feet on the smooth cool floor. 

Straight backed yawn, a slow creak of shoulders stretching, and a wildness of curled hair slowly rise from the bed. Even in the dim grey light of morning, with sleep sanded eyes, and pillow creased face she is beautiful and does not believe that it aches my heart. 

She exits the bedroom to head down the hallway towards the kitchen where the magic elixir of coffee is calling. My love walks slowly, taking the time for the bones to wake up, eyes to adjust, and blood to fill out the limbs and digits. She has left the world of sleep and dreams, but is not yet ready for the day to come and all the busyness that comes with it. She will take her time and linger between these two worlds. 

Outside, the sun has peaked over the rim of the earth and Spring has opened one eye in the pale greening tendrils of the beautiful old willow at the end of the lane. 

Slow Spring and my love have risen, and I will not rush either.

The Man in the Station