White Flag

The way the sun glinted off the armor was familiar;

The way the swords glanced off was not

Every swing found only armor

Each strike a bloodless spark

The breaks leave room for self-inspection;

The only wound, a dented pride

More scuffs on shoes than shields

Marked, but unmaimed

Each clash only revealed restraint, until

Metal planted to ground

Roots replace edges;

A swing decidedly in the wrong direction

A fitting riposte:

Helmet settled into the sand

Gauntlets discarded, fingers finally stretching

Until the second sword makes it a garden

With both hands, the white flag is raised.

They giggle - ‘I love you too’