He talks like autumn—
walks like he is the breeze
that blew out the sun
and knocked down the leaves.

Winter was too quiet
and it was far too cold,
when I was defiant
and became far too bold.

So next was the spring
and I was a flower,
but I could only grow
if there were a few showers.

Summer was too strong
and I was set on fire;
the days were far too long
and the heat left me tired.

I froze in winter
and melted in the sun
and spring's far too teary
to have any fun.

But in the autumn,
when it's not too hot or cold,
that is the season in which
I want to grow old.

Once when I was drunk
I held my hand to a flame
And it didn’t hurt

I beat the sunrise.
It can’t outrun me
when I’m up all night.

And secretly
the energy
in my personality
is the courtesy
of the adrenaline in
the morning
that’s been lasting
since 3 AM.

Every time the sky glows
my body knows
how it always goes.

My goosebumps raise
until the jealous sun’s rays,
flaming around laze,
come to whisper the day,
and they often say
the morning is “mine”
and now it’s time—
because they call me the Lark—
for me to tell,
on branches from which I fell,
the day to start.

I hit my head going to bed.
Now I’ll be awake
even when I’m dead.

And secretly I’ve
always liked
the fright of night
and spite
of all things bright,
often unkind,
in this sour mind
of mine.

Every time the veil lifts,
this is it,
how I can’t quit.

My feathers jump
and the sun’s always stumped,
traveling slowly up,
why I haven’t yet done
the morning fun
as I reluctantly climb,
and now it’s time—
because they call me the Lark,—
for me to tell,
on branches from which I fell,
the day to start.