When I Was There...

When I was last there

In the absent light

Of a forlorn summer rain,

You were a thorn

Beneath the petals:

An afterthought,

The shocking pain

In the excitement of beauty.

Before that, in the early strokes

Of a vibrant spring,

You were a seed,

Maybe, that fell from a rip

In the cloth of my pocket

When I was tilling fresh ground

With raw hands:

Unknowingly making you a bed

From which to draw my blood.