I used to call it sing-songy French,
the occasional sweet things you’d say
in your deep southern, swing low tone.
We lost all contact over the years:
marriages, divorces, voyages,
wars and rumors of wars,
storms and floods and broken dikes –
and now we are too aged
to put the scattered pieces back
into their right places.
While scattered, these 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,
yet 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.