Reasons Like Seasons

Boy One is being an uncooperative punk, and my husband is mad. Boy One is five, and my husband is an adult, but at the moment, it is hard to tell the difference. Both of them need a time-out, but instead they yell at each other, locked in conflict, for longer than I would wish, neither willing to back down or retire. After far too long, they are calm, and I venture to speak. "Why don't you call your mom and ask her what you were like when you were five?" I suggest. "Why don't you call your mom?" he throws back. "She said I didn't listen until I was thirty," I replied, "and with that, she's being generous." "I'm not calling my mom," he declared. "Have it your way," I respond, grinning. (I bet he was exactly the same.)

Anger burns. Sometimes like a match, Quickly scratched then quickly extinguished. But that is the best kind, The best because it is gone Almost as quickly as it comes upon itself. Anger burns. Sometimes like a lighter, Held as long as one wants to hold it. And that kind causes little harm, Because the owner is in control And can put it out at any time. Anger burns. Sometimes like an ember, Hot and smoldering for ages. And that is the worst kind, The worst because it lingers Longer than anyone would expect. Be cautious always for embers, For they can ignight at any time. There is no looking back. Anger burns.