The wind is fierce
as he steps into the tailor's shop
wanders the aisles in search of her
 
among spools and bolts 
of finest Mora silk 
bins of buttons and clasps 
carved from banned Torka shell.
 
There's a letter tucked inside
his flight jacket, its edges
worn and frayed. . .
 
     Meet me at that shop on Terzon IV.
     Please—just this one more time. . .
 
A scent drifts toward him
from the fitting rooms. . .
sugared Mora blossoms
honey-glazed Tula nuts
an exotic spice from Taari.
 
Could it be. . .her?
 
He follows the scents
like fingers beckoning,
letter still in hand as
the tailor emerges with a customer,
an aging woman unknown to him.
 
He smiles at her politely, nods,
as is customary on this world,
the hope that briefly kindled, dashed. . .
 
this could not be his longed-for love.
 
"A woman came, left this,” the tailor says,
hands him an envelope of precious paper,
his name wrought in priceless ink.
 
He reaches out to grasp it,
offers murmured thanks,
buys a spool of crimson thread. . .
 
The customer averts her eyes as
with trembling hands
he opens the envelope,
reads a verse, at first confusing. . .
 
    
     preserved in ice
     the scent of Mora blossoms
    
but then its meaning dawns.
 
He smiles through wisdom's unshed tears,
and without a backward glance,
passes through the tailor's door
into a wind less fierce
than the memory of her scent.

(Author's Note: I believe this poem was published in Illumen quite a few years ago.)

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