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Eris Redux
Do not count the times my truant tongue spoke
As though counting spring lambs high on the hill!
Can a fire rage aflame with ash and oak
And not yield it's embers to the dawn's chill?
A sabre’s errant challenge to confront
With parochial Envy at its root
Now presented again, both dull and blunt
That turns, by parried defense, to be moot.
Again, with mirth, I engage thine outrage,
Though tire from its false theme of affront
As rote as the actor’s lines from his stage,
No more to win than the fox in the hunt.
Rest thy rage, it to mellow by the morn
To soften thy brow, no longer forlorn.
Copyright ©
Ken Rone
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