Small moments can make big memories. One such small moment flitted past, hummingbird-quick, thirteen years ago. At the time, the exchange lasted seconds. But it has hovered in the peripheral vision of my memory, causing me to glance sidelong at it, time and again.

In the Arboretum

He plunges his nose into a lilac cluster and
inhales,
drinking the scent into his lungs 
the way a marathoner gulps water
a dozen miles into the race, 
as if the dainty petals’ perfume
is the sustenance of life.

He catches my gaze and quirks a brow.
“Yeah, I stop to smell flowers. 
So what?” he says,
words a soft-tipped arrow
fired from a smile’s bow.
He doesn’t realize
he owes no explanation to me,

Because while he admires the flower,
I admire his attention to the bloom.