Arianne's the April morning that comes drifting 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 momma'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 feelings,
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 to overglowing
But there's always room for more of Arianne

Arianne is momma'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 feelings,
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 to overglowing
But there's always room for more of Arianne

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