To break the rod and spoil the wayward child
where but the hand is left to set the pace.
To still the heart in love when one is riled
to run the hunt in search of anger’s face.

As letters fall and words become the puzzle
upon the scrabble of the thoughts we keep.
The goblet filled with anxs which we muzzle
until the morning wakes from fitful sleep.

But when a year does pass the memory of
a time that brought the sadness flowing out
where tears then fall upon the winged dove
forgetting what the reason was to shout.

The rod of anger spared upon the child
shall bring to bear a reason both have smiled.