What lips your lips have kissed and
Where and why
I do not know.
I do know they were stunning.
They must have been,
Lips like over ripened strawberries,
Sweetness from fermentation, too sweet,
And soft, like your childhood
Blanket.

They must have sounded like spring birds.
Because they were new, and young,
And brighter than winter birds.
They must have sent you sorrow songs to mingle with the sweets.
They must have mimicked the wind chimes,
Outside your door and on the porch.

They must have treated you
Like pollen dust mid-summer sunset,
although I found autumn rain more appealing,
And you were the years last thunder storm.

The words from them,
Sunset dust, spring bird songs,
Fermented berry lips to tantalize, your baby blanket.
Shooting for less is for sure.
Surely the lips cannot be deep red and sweet just right,
And one can be only blanket
Rather than the entire infant room.
Not all the birds can be one song,
The rain is not the pollen.

Millay did not ask of your affairs,
Merely wished to reminiscence.
But those words I question you.
Tell me where, tell me why
So I may know before the rain stops
And winter comes
And the baby grows up,
Before the berries rot.