To Pluck a Rose

When I, grasped by
or pricked with
lip licking hunger
or tines of Spring deep beauty,
like dew tipped blades
or blushing swell of womb,
which held my eyes
like crimson tipped fingers
or a smile in silence
or a wave in the crowd,
as though caught in
a cloud wet wind,
and jerked free pearling tears,
round, warm, sitting softly,
sorrow's sap, or soul's blood,
grasped that thorny stem
and plucked a rose.