On a mild morn in May
her fists festoon this action.
Since I cannot flee the fray,
courage seeks some traction.

Her fists festoon this action;
insults wound a thistle heart.
Courage seeks some traction,
for in a second, war shall start.

Insults wound a thistle heart;
fingers mingle in dank dirt,
for in a second war shall start;
soft soil now accosts my skirt.

Fingers mingle in dank dirt,
since I cannot flee the fray.
Soft soil now accosts my skirt
on a mild morn in May.