Il pleure dans mon cœur
comme il pleut sur la ville

The lovely, easy lines
(they are both of those things).

Walking abroad in his twentieth year
was when he first noticed them,
and tested them aloud
in private moments.

Liking the rhyme of their
pleure and cœur.
Also the flow of their
pleut and pleure.

Not guessing how long
they would stay. Nor that they
would be forgotten for years,
and remembered as often.

And it’s he who, again now,
is here in his youth and naïveté, lifting
his eyes from the page and
turning his face toward me.

“Ah,” I say. He smiles at some
lost thought.

This appeared in the March 2015 issue.