You can’t expect
To know when the ghosts will come,
When paused in the hallway
Of an elderly neighbour
The scent of white lilies
Has you unexpectedly
Clearing your throat and
Excusing your exit

How minor the threads
That can tease out tears.
How mysterious the cues
When on the grand day
Set aside for such things
The wind had you as cold as stone.

Now in a kitchen
To a symphony of warm bread
And nodding lilies,

A conductor's hands,
As small and pale as cotton gloves,
Ushers them stage front.