Was it my fault that I asked the larks
 your secret whisper-name?
A small mistake, I won't regret,
 yet I am ashamed.

They said it was Mountain Laurel
 who opened the morning for song-
I was happy,
 half convinced
They were not wrong

The rain could come
 or bubblegum.  
I'd smiled as the flower
 of our nakedness bloomed,
Then withered in the bower.  

Mountain Laurel Girl,
 what wilts your cheek of rose?
Why switch those crimson lips I kissed 
 with blue umbrellas?

Later, confronted by nightingales,
 they blamed the larks of lies-

       "Moonflower is she
     of the slender wrists, she,
            of ocean eyes"

And when I asked those dapper chaps
 how sweetly she did love me
They cawed a song of sunset
 beset with storm, and ugly