Now questions break like spray in grand cascade.
How could they not? Blanche died before I asked
Of James and Arabelle, the pair her made.
Distracted, young, my declarations fast.

Now old, slow, I’d give years to here her voice.
Were your folks sweet to you, dear Blanche? I’d say
When you picked Cecil, they approve your choice?
James wore the Blue, Cec’ dad boasted the Gray.

When Arabelle died, you blame God or fate?
You go with Cecil just to get away?
You knew James’ mother? Simple not ornate.
At least the one picture we have would state.

Drenched in old age and ignorance, I fret,
Loosed from this moil, might I get answers yet?