In making pretty things, I spend a time,
A magpie of my own decree.
In sitting pretty with my little gems,
A jewler of my handy crafts.
In being lovely, tools do make a lovely man,
And lovely men do make a joyful art.

A discourse on the sense,
Transcends a thought to straining leap,
Draws out a claw and desperate pace,
To salvage any meaning from the words,
Generalising far beyond this reason,
Straining feebly at the divine present,
Seizing but humility for our efforts.
Thanks Philosophy, it truly did need a song after all.

An orderly date marks an orderly day,
Of shifting now my digital scribbles,
Playing the archivalist-
I brush away the crumbs,
Of yesteryear into the cabinets far away.

The cloudy sky is mottled pastel blue,
The grass is green and vibrant through and through,
I watch the clouds, they dance to one fine tune,
Friendship blooms in a windy afternoon.