“Mum, each foot has turned into a lamb, oh!”

“Not actually, Claudia-pup, but now that mum is up, let us play crambo!”

“Um, is each foot a saged, aged canine?”

“No, they are not both a silver foxy.”

“Are they sapling sisters so spiced?”

“No, they are not squirrels of moxie.”

“Could they be giant, gruff glue globules?”

“Uh-uh, they are not edgy epoxy.”

“I know! They are Scottish cryptids!”

“Sharp guess, but they are not monsters of Ness Lochsy.”

“Mmm…Mum, I am just a dog—short on wit and writ and long to quit and sit.”

“Yea! You won, Claudia-girl! I knew you could do it, my feating-fluff-is-ruff-is-enough little doxie!” ; )

First heifer said to the first, “Hi, high fir.”

Second heifer looked upward and said to the second, “Hi. Y’re a higher fir.”

Third heifer up-moved its head even more and said to the third, “Hi, next-highest fir.”

Fourth heifer, high on hay, said to the fourth, “Hi. For a fir, you are as high as I.”

Fifth heifer, half her herd’s average size, asked the fifth, “Hi. Have I earned, for here fir, highest or fairest?”

Sixth heifer, bearing half-calf in slow-tow, plotted to the sixth, “Hi. Far be it for this mum-sum-some to hi-offer a high fare, but, re the perfect height of both your branches and bark for these patches of unreachable scratches stark, I have more than enough moolah if I could—for her, for me—please, big cheese of these trees, use you as a loofah.” ; )

Mary, intent on traipsing not oh-lord-so-bored walk,

Merried herself across railing’s trailing-spring boardwalk,

Marrying fantasy via nightcapped-with-khat walk,

Merely fancied in fascinator on clapped catwalk. ; )

For the bullionist believes more wishes in the well somehow improves odds, whether by sheer count of coin or value of each face. But, gates can turn heavenly or leadenly—opening way to oneiric odysseys or closing quay to soul sellers and gyp ships. Hold not less faith in the loafer’s penny, tossed in the fountain for neither desire nor mimicked indifference, but for half-second’s fleeting joy—aural plop and rainy drop—that, then, does not so metallically sink as it does metaphysically rise spirit’s peace via winsome wonder—and its granted waves reverberating. ; )

That which alights horizon of sweating swevens,

Connecting its bow to rain collected below,

Buttercupping awe across pool’s static still—

Like the grace of a tear running a chinned cheek

As it limns balm upon morbidezza’s fallen face—

Finds, in its terrestrial tattoo, an oneiric offspring,

An iteration of itself as fleeting as a held blink,

Yet sincere enough to assure that it—as ink’s imago—

Holds worth—in space of its breaking, bonding mercy. ; )