Winter Of The Heart
Snow on oranges, snow on palm trees,
snow breaking branches off the mimosa
that was just about to bloom:
It happens only once in a dozen years
but you make no comment.
That faraway look in your gray eyes
makes me wonder where you're hanging out:
In the green pastures of your youth,
in the desert of your married years,
or in the snowy wastes of Doctor Zhivago?
Maybe you still dream of Omar Sharif or Julio Iglesias
now that you have finally abandoned
your lifelong struggle to communicate
with the Robert Redford lookalike
who shares your nights and days.
He was never one for listening
even if he is the first one to complain
about your silence, now.