My first love peed her pants with laughter once.
Not lovers yet, we walked on a springtime street,
the buds just barely on the branch, when something—
an incongruous word, the fall of shadow
from a cloud on a melting hill of snow,
a crow pecked off by a rutting sparrow—
something filled her with such glee that laughter
made her lose control, and down it came warm
then chill in the cool spring air. Falling
with laughter she was, and what then could I
but fall as well, in love with spring and above
all her, not aware yet that life's rictus comes
as summer finally crisps the last snowdrop—
and then the sere fall, and the yellow leaf.
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