For R.

Nettle as a man,
you call to me.
Like a child I reach for your pristine white flowers
only to feel the itching sting.
No matter how tender my attempt,
invisibly fine
needles pierce me.
I cry out
in desire and pain.
Unable to touch,
suffused with longing,
I lay down by you in the spring grass
and count your petals.
You ask me how I am
as casual as an acquaintance at church.
And I want to pour words all around you like sunshine,
but I clip my heart short.
“Happy and Busy,” I say.
As if I have not missed you.
I lift my pen,
and touch it
to your memory.