On Seeing A Young Girl In Spring

Soft hair blowing,
flowing. Golden.
Golden glowing,
blowing without a care.

Catching sunlight.
Bouncing, warm bright,
shining back just right.
Gleaming fire. Young, light hair.

No soft touch for me,
no careless brush
given light, and free.
So long since a breast seen bare.

Too far the years,
and with the years,
too many tears.
Love left, none to spare.

And, yet, young hair blowing,
softly glowing,
gently flowing,
Moves old heart to care.