How heavy is a thought,
Perhaps in picograms,
And spanning many magnitudes,
From mounts to little lambs,

For some it is too much,
For other but hot air,
And pulling long and flat
The face - how various the care!

Oh my sweet dear humanity,
The mind is much like clay,
And turning in the potter's hands,
Is myriad in way.

Returning to the funny squares,
To play with the interpolation,
That whirrs away behind my eyes,
That makes the simple come alive,
The angles smooth, the motion filled,
With nuances that only dwell in the implied.

The April Fool - a merry antic in the flesh,
Yet I only saw his shadow in the day,
Just a whisper of his name,
No fish or crying laughter all the same,
Alas I'll tell of this symbol olden,
The April Fool scratched tin to golden,
A spoon to sharp and edged knives,
A fellow needy of nine lives,
Pity he is all but a cat -
A Fool, a jolly April Fool instead.

One,
Four,
Two,
Three,
Mixing it up with little bit of numeracy,
And some stratified date reading,
As the days are pleading,
For me to stop being the April fool,
But I can't change when my birthday falls,
In April that is...
Not today, that would be unfortunate.