The Fall of Man

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.