I would write a song and sing it
To you on a warm day
In the grass with tickling fingers
On the back of my bare legs.
And everyone who heard it would
Wonder at the girl who would
Sing such a song.
Because such a song usually goes

Without words, in silence we would
Brush at tickling finger grass.
But you have sadness in your
Tilting eyebrows as you gaze
Glazed over at me so that I can't
Decipher whence come these moon-blue blues.
One finger to trace a smooth
Circle around one socket and
One eye keeps watching
Still sad.
So this song I sing
I wrote
Too late, it's true, but now here
Nowhere else and no one else.
Smell the spring of birth on my breath
As I breathe this living song.