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