The day, of no great merit,
ended—a dandelion gone to seed,
minutes squandered, hours spent,
no bright gold. Yet in the ledgered
plainness of the day, overcast, common,
some subtle brush of meaning
held me. Was it those unexpected
words of thanks, or the single lilac
plunged in a paper cup,
there on a stranger's desk?
Something, a fragrance,
lingered well past dusk.