Arianne

Arianne's an April morning That comes rippling through my window She's the smell of coffee brewing On a quiet rainy Sunday And the purring of a kitten That has made my neck a pillow for its head Arianne's the silly music That my father used to whistle She's the new leaf on the fern That I had given up last winter And what writers have to feel like When they suddenly discover they've been read Arianne is mama's crystal Bread that's nearly finished baking And the rainbow in a puddle And the happiest of birthdays Then the going off on Friday And the coming back on Monday with a tan Arianne is made of feeling So I milk her of her kisses And I swallow up her breathing And I taste her where she loves me And I'm filled, overflowing But there's always room for more of Arianne Arianne is Mama's crystal Bread that's nearly finished baking And the rainbow in a puddle And the happiest of birthdays And the going off on Friday And the coming back on Monday with a tan Arianne is made of feeling So I milk her of her kisses And I swallow up her breathing And I taste her where she loves me And I'm filled, overflowing But there's always room for more of Arianne