Note to poem:
Reflecting on years gone by when young hearts experimented with romance. I remember in a hazy daze of pulling white petals from a daisy, saying with each petal,
* she loves me?….. she loves me not….. she loves me?
elle m’aime? … elle m’aime ne pas… elle m’aime?
* oui, elle a chanté je t’aime, je t’aime.
Yes, she sang, I love you, I love you
And then I got to thinking, why should only the young enjoy these pleasures?
Why not those who have shared long lives together?
Vieil Amour
*Elle m’aime? softly to his wife of thirty years wed
From gnarled fingers slipped a petal of soft rose red
And so serenely floating down to gently rest
On semi naked skin of crinkled velvet breast,
Her young beauty still lay within, on silken bed.
Elle m’aime ne pas, he whispered full of tenderness
Knowing each intimate want with confident caress
Soft music and fine wine with his charm she’s entranced
Oh to the song of his moist lips her nipple danced;
Elle m’aime? he said his voice full of romantic stress.
Elle m’aime? . . . Elle m’aime ne pas, . . . Elle m’aime?
Bathed in sunlight, petals of red and virgin white
*Oohh la la oui, elle a chanté je t’aime, je t’aime.
Posted for Poets United mid week motif, the song of a single word
