She Waits

She waits like perfume lingering within
the softest folds and fabric of the robe
she wore against the presence of her skin;
presented in her patience, time is slowed
like warmth in late November, like a leaf
that feels the perfect breeze yet clings aloft
to barren branches.  Where is the release
of autumn perfume, lingering and soft?
She waits like autumn, waits for me to fall,
full-knowing life will tumble, drift and sway
my brittle soul.  I sense the subtle call
of perfume in the robe she wore that day
when gently she assured my lofty doubt
that she would wait until it all worked out.

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