| 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
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| That has made my neck a pillow for its head
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| Arianne’s the silly music
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| That my father used to whistle
|
| She’s the new leaf on the fern
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| That I had given up last winter
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| And what writers have to feel like
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| When they suddenly discover they’ve been read
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| Arianne is mama’s crystal
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| Bread that’s nearly finished baking
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| And the rainbow in a puddle
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| And the happiest of birthdays
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| Then the going off on Friday
|
| And the coming back on Monday with a tan
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| 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 |