Grass browned and cut with a chawing cud
Fat and round with a sun burnt down

Unlike me

Not a one of them knows a breath of Frost
Or has ever weighed over an ounce of Cummings evenly

No

We are different makers, different means
With different paths to guided completely differently

And thank God for that
And this preferential me

It's not how quick your feet are
Or how fast you can run in an attempt to fly

It's none of THAT and all of THIS
How you fall with the imperfections of each inevitable try

I'll tell you what it is, IT IS, right in front of you
In the face of the breath which has yet to come

It has nothing to do with how many times your feet may falter
When you fail to fly

But how quickly you can defy and overcome
Which defines the true heart inside

Quicker than the blink of a Firefly
Brighter than the summer days and nights
Quieter than a Brook trouts breath
And more beautiful than the gradient sky
Are the words which I've yet to hear from you
But look forward to
Most fervently