The fragrance of a season usually arrives too late

Around me, people transplant blooming light into photographs,
yet with a discarded fragrance tucked into my pocket,
I linger along the far edge of the season,
and in doing so,
come to learn something almost naturally

Things that cannot be named
often grow in places deeper than names
The more one tries to explain them,
the more they lose their shape,
like water spilled across a floor

The white silence left behind by a white rose
follows the trace of hands scattered into the cosmos,
and the glass vase that once held flowers
only pretends to contain light,
while remaining closer to an emptiness made of transparency

The fact that we have lost something
is proof that we once carried it within us,
and so, paradoxically,
a life is sometimes measured
by the weight of what has vanished

After several cold dawns have passed,
petals become soil,
and the soil lifts fragrance into the world once more
Yet some fragrances never return,
and that is what makes them sorrowful

The world is already speaking
of the next season,
but I am still here,
trying to understand you
through the lingering scent
of a season that remains at the tip of my nose