Ouch
Things like the shocking, unfamiliar stain
Of spreading crimson on my faded jeans,
The tree-fall, angling, ankle-sprain,
The biting penknife brought from Spain,
And all the other childhood scenes
That taste like flowering buds of pain;
Strange to think they will not come again,
How fights and falling all have been,
And those old, distant hurts now seem
Sweet like the perfumed, petaled rain.