We were seven,
city girl, country boy
chasing each other
down the road
bordered by milkweed
that separated the two farms.
You grabbed the fluff
threw it in my hair
I cried, not knowing what it was,
you laughed,
both of us feeling
the flutter of first love.

Now at seventy,
you gone these thirty years
I spy the milkweed fluff
riding the breeze
of memory and feel
that flutter again.