Arianne is april morning, that comes rippling through my window.
She's the smell of coffee brewing, on a quiet, rainy sunday.
She's the purring of a kitten,
that has made my neck a pillow for his head.
Arianne is silly music that my father used to whistle.
She's the new leaf on a fire
that I had given up last winter
And what writers have to feel like when they suddenly discover they've been read.
Arianne is momma's crystal bread that's nearly finished baking
She's a rainbow in a puddle
and the happiest birthday
she's a'goin out on friday and a'comin back on monday with
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