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There where the well

sprang, I remember Isabelle like

French lilies in the wind

 

A summer dress; green or turquoise? We quarrelled

and he said guys can only understand so and so many

colours. The same strange gender murmur

of that which spaced itself into my stepmother's head

All the things we can do without

if we forget,

 

right? But never her pony pink sandals, or dad telling

us that you hid his gold ring in the oven when you were two,

 

Isabelle.

 

Memories that sprang like a well

in this crusted old heart. Take his hand; I spoke softly hoping

for the moment when we decide

 

to let love in.

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