In moments of parting,
your perfume is the very air
filling rooms --
the kind of scent left behind
when time puts on the feet,
drags you to unswept corners.
The same spray that greets me
when heaven sighs,
stirs fine leaves to a shower
of tranquility.
The same bloom-breath
that leaves me to my thoughts
wondering at blossoms
keeping fragrance
when brought up to any nose --
withering, embalming all seasons.
The same soft image escaping
before sleep-powder is dabbed on --
night wearing your skin,
then shedding your smell at dawn.
I wake up dreaming you just left,
too late to catch you staring
like a saint-image to a praying man --
your perfume
the only sign you had just left
the sudden nearness.
For all you are never remains
longer than the surprise
your scent brings,
like someone whose presence
has always been of leaving.
