Flinging water everywhere,
the old and chilling breeze
ruffles the feathers of sparrows,
reminding them of the promise.

Warm inside their cozy nests
huddled lovers making songs
built from memories,
that the world will hear tomorrow.

Sealed with the kiss of Autumn,
dreamt of the winter through,
awaiting the awakening,
it's Springtime's little fling.

I wanted to know that thing higher,
but clay heavily weighed my hand.

I wanted to know that lightness,
effervescence, where sun sparkles,
and the very air holds in radiance.
I wanted to know those things higher.

But too often have I bumped my head
reaching for the immaterial, it so
impractical, so seeming nothingness.

Now I no longer try; clay is hard enough
to build sky skyscrapers, hard enough
to pierce the clouds, -and beyond.

Out on the dusty plains where the sun burns hot and bright,
There rode a man with a heart as dark as the starless night.
He went by the name of Falloff, a legend in these parts,
Known for his quick draw and his deadly aim that broke men's hearts.

In the town of Deadwood, they whispered tales of his past,
Of a love long lost and a betrayal that would forever last.
Falloff rode into town one day, his eyes cold and steely,
Looking for a man who had done him wrong, a man named Billy.

As a hypothetical argument
yours truly doth not aim
to be unfortunate recipient
of misguided, misjudged, and mislaid blame,
nevertheless I make dubious claim
and baldly recede (ha – hair ye, here ye)
from heady assertion
to make bold statement
such that literacy supersedes numeracy,
between said measurable