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.