His world is clothed in blue, gray, and white-
profoundly silent in its isolation
and filling him with a bittersweet melancholy.
He feels the burn of the gin on the back
of his throat, and he swallows quickly.
Who is this woman, he wonders dimly,
this May Queen with a December gaze?
The ice blue eyes peer from beneath lowered lashes
and half remembered winter dreams
rise unbidden from her depths.
He feels a stirring- a faint flutter of the heart.
She has flowers in her hair, the pale gold of it
speaking of lands with dark and sunless winters.
She is contradiction and compliance.
The martini glass is comfortingly solid in his hand-
anchoring him in the sea of her glacial eyes.
He begins to rise, involuntarily-
a quirk of her pink lips beckoning.