Seed Head

Here lingers the time
softened scent of you;
flowers of fury and fire,
it smarts in memory,
but not the eye.
And how this heart howls.

In the echo of your footsteps,
passing beyond a door
to which I held the key,
there is half heard whisper,
an exclamation mark,
a moment's clarity, of purpose,
belated,
making itself known.