On Being Asked by Our Receptionist If I Liked the Flowers

“What flowers?” I said. “These flowers,” she said,
Gesturing leftward with her head,
And there it was: a vase of flowers
That hadn’t graced that fort of hers
The day before. Did I say a vase?
All of an urn is what it was:
Capacious home to a bursting sun
Of thirty lilies if to one.
A splendor I’d have seen for sure,
If less employed in seeing her.