Hiya Jack Frost… You’re Pretty

She was sat upon a cushioned window seat,
with an old picnic blanket
wrapped around her shoulders.
Abstractly listening to the Milkman
gently clinking bottles
and creaking open garden gates
on his early 7:30am round.
Blowing slight smoke rings
with her cold, March breath
and squinting now and then
at the intricate patterns
Jack Frost-ed across
the eight small window panes
walling her left-hand side.
She had turned a Corner, at last…
this was the morning when she realized
that the pain was gone,
that the longing had become acceptance,
and the desperate, raging grieving
had landslided
down to a dull but tolerable ache.
She was now beginning a Recovery,
a thoughtful, introspective,
in-between chapter phase…
where she could, at last,
evaluate things unemotionally,
weigh up choices and options
without panic,
and have Control enough
to step lightly before…
Where the dried up tears
would no longer blur the way,
and stop her from accepting,
and learning,
from the tragic, difficult past,
before using her newfound strength
to lay it to rest and finally say “Goodbye”

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books Scribblings Of A Madman (Lit Fest Press); Poetry From The Nearest Barstool; and a split poetry book The Raven And The Vagabond Heart with Bethany W Pope. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.