I always called it sing-songy French,
the occasional sweet things she’d say
in her deep southern, swing low tone.
We lost all contact over time:
marriages, divorces, voyages,
wars and rumors of wars,
storms and floods and broken dikes –
and now we are too old
to put the scattered pieces back
into their right places.
But though scattered, the random pieces
of our lost love, words, verses
refuse to go away completely,
to abandon us hopelessly, altogether.
So we stare at them, the pieces,
the fragments, impossible to ignore,
though equally impossible to re-assemble,
and the pieces stare back at us,
the sing-songy notes, the French words
we used to know, the whispers,
and rest in peaceful sleep.