Another poem appears to have written itself. The Tulips The tulips have come up again Carefully sprinkled throughout the yards along the street in clumps of frilly pink. Rows of gentle yellows and creamy whites line the walkways. The vacant lot turned park by a gentleman bachelor is fronted by a vibrant cacophony. Its variety is antagonistic to the guileless lawn it embellishes. With a disparate nature that reflects the push and pull of hungry hearts, Unanswered questions, and an eternal yearning for spring, They stand for a moment. A brief diverting beauty even as their edges curl.

Tomorrow, we will resume our regular programing, but for today–a poem. Christmas Morning Fallen leaves hushed by frost Collect along the edge of the sidewalk. An old man, formal in a fur-trimmed hat, Echoes “Merry Christmas” from the shelter of his front porch. Leaded glass stars sway a vintage greeting Below the archway of the Grand Dame on the corner. Christmas Day begins with the deep quiet that cloaks reverence Like a velvety blanket of falling snow. Slowly, the brilliant sunshine shortens the shadows And awakens a desperate sparrow’s song.