The spring day when after the dark subway
the light was blinding and the last of the snow
melted, trickling into the gutters, but still
there was the scent of fresh snow.
Work was over at last and there
wasn’t a thought of tomorrow.
There were flowers like lit candles
on the corner near Old South Church
and just enough money for daffodils
that came dripping from the bucket,
daffodils carried home to our room.
where we sat without having to talk.
And I became part of the sun-struck
halo, the snow-washed high windows,
the silvery mirror, voices rising
from the street, walls saturated
with ghost music, passengers peering
from train windows and those arriving
to vanish in the distant Back Bay streets.