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