Fancy

She wore her fancy in her thoughts, not lace,
A tea-stained reverie, a quiet grace.
While others chased the shiny, new, and bright,
She found her joy in soft, diffused light.

No brocade nor jewel caught her eye,
Just daffodils nodding beneath a grey sky.
Her trousers pressed with care, her cup held true,
The splendour lay in seeing things askew.

The loudest trumpets, the most gilded spoons,
Could not compare to afternoon monsoons.
For fancy’s truest, gentlest, truest art
Is finding wonder in the ordinary heart.
The fanciest thing was being plainly glad.