Chute d'automne

"Ah, quel dommage!" my mother said to me
When I was very small and ill at ease
Because the wind was blowing through the trees
And frightening the birds that I could see
Alighting, flying off, while two or three
Drab chipmunks turned and tumbled in the breeze.
"It's fall," I murmured. "Will they fall and freeze?"
My mother answered, "Ah, mon pauvre petit!"

Why did she speak in French? I don't recall,
Maybe I didn't even ask her. Mad,
I yelled, complaining, I would tell my Dad
That she was making fun of me. What gall,
I thought. Though ill at ease and very small,
I said to her, "Your accent's pretty bad."