Villanelle

Let others wrangle. I will wonder at pro and con, at con and pro. Righteousness rails, but truth is tender toward diverse claims of boast, of blunder.

April's the melt we meant was snow. Let others wrangle, I will wonder how I was born to be defender of soaring error against which low righteousness rails. O truth, my tender paradox which lets me wander further afield than I might go otherwise, wrangling: let me wonder silent at shouting skies that sunder night from morning. Loud aglow, righteousness rails. Truth is the tender dusk to which my days surrender mute, knowing they need not know why others wrangle. Stilled, in wonder righteousness reels. Truth rallies, tender.