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From the car, I could see you inhaling petunias.
Then you waved at me, like you were farther away
than just the few feet; another dimension,
another actual light of life, of air
and the scent of Metzler's Florist, dreamy plants,
and their lovers who press the petals in pleasure.
You were the waver who may go away,
(I say 'may'; I am the one in denial)
I thought, as the sun, behemoth over you,
seemed infinite and never dissipating.
Collective stamens, yellow as tragic gold,
offer themselves up to an alter of beauty,
like you will vanish in some flash of gloom,
but not before me, for I have gone already,
into a deep cavernous tomorrow.
I do not dare wave too wildly back;
but I do wave, like a boy who has
playfully slipped behind the wheel, testing it out,
or one in the passenger seat, waiting
to gain his own sense of scorched movement,
quick in the heat, urgent on fresh soil.
I ponder the invisible; out there, along Route 26,
(the part of 26, west, closest to the sun)
miles and miles from the place of hiding,
the titular place, the fragrance of pure petals;
the hand in the air, the tears, the thoughts, enjoined.
Out among the timidity of those lush plants,
we built more bridges to cross through horizons
Lamont Palmer
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