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Poem

I rise,
with cock and crow.

I sense,
the Who, the How.

I move,
from Intent to Act.

I gauge and guess -
overthinking here,
underthinking there.
I weigh and wonder -
overworrying fear,
wonder syncing here.

I react or respond -
overshooting now,
then undershooting. 

I finish, a fallow field
long afore the sun
winks past out past
the Last Edge there.

I fall back, where
earlier I'd rose.
No closer to wise
though closer to worn. 

The Fall of Man
is his rise and rise.
His meeting of the day
with the unlearnéd mind
and a flesh vessel which
could seem stoic but
really rather is a stubborn
thing.

This rote rising,
the start of Falling.
This same work I do
not for man, but for woman.
And most happ'ly so.
The chance to rise not
for self.  The chance not to
reenact with cock and crow
the (daily) Fall of Man.
But rather, instead, perchance
to dream, to rise 
to Sense (of)
to Move (with)
to Guess (at)
to Respond (to)
a Woman.

Yes, rather than
the Fall of Man.
Might I rise to
Fall for a
Woman.

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