Commuter

The sauntering, setting sun in gold
West wayward beckoned me
Along a way so often seen
It held no mystery.

But this time, as is often so
When least expecting it,
Familiar forms awoke delight
When dying sun was lit.

It showed a rainbow-radiant cloud
Upon horizon’s sill
And lastly, lifted painted orbs
Of some balloonist’s thrill.

The eve recalls a thousand things
That lie beyond mind’s reach
And leaves me waiting, wondering
Just what it was to teach.

Faintly now glows fantasy
In eye, or memory?
Perhaps upon another day
The sun will beckon me.