Lingering

You could tell
it was the fading
of the milkweed
blossoms

- those
fair and tender
blooms of the roadsides
and the fields.

Their scent
a lingering of
phlox and lilac;

hints of verbena
in the cool.

Their aroma mingles
strongly

and hangs
heavy

in both
the morning
and the evening
air.

How is it we cannot
describe a thing without
the using of another thing;

in a short or long chain of
descriptive words and
similes.

How might we say a life
without other lives to
spread the meaning out
before us in landscapes of
like and as.

Shades of purpling
pink and dusty roads
are vibrant in the softly
closing time and
hues of their
hiatus.

As they stand
there

on their stalks,

in the mingled earth
of all that has
come before

they are nothing
without the nutrients
of the past
soaking into them -

history matters.
Our lives and
theirs are nothing
more than

a giving over of
an aroma that is

part ours and part from
our people - from all
that have come before

It passes on

- through us -

like their scent

in this
cool breeze.

It lands upon
the lives of
all around

giving pause

a chance to smile
and to feel the special
inkling

that can only come
in a realization.

I love that smell.
I love that sight.
What can we not
gain from

their simple being.

We are this,

pieces of all that
have come before

given over to us
for this moment

and then,

then we are

theirs.  Carried
away

gently on the
tendrils
and tiny feet
of those

who have
sought to

gain from us -

one cool
draught;

an aroma
of majestic
sweetness

but only so
an hour.

We are only
who we are
because of others.

They are in us,
and they feed us
forever.