You're a scab I want to pick
outlined garishly on my skin
but I know I'll find underneath
my raw unhealed flesh
so I wait, a pot of water
not yet boiling
You're a flower still
tightly concealed in green wrappings
of bud and secret
I can't pick you
I can't even find you, camouflaged
in a field of so many greens.
~June 21, 2011
