A poet does not rhyme with words.

She rhymes a feeling to a memory,

a thought to a touch.

This flower rhymes with her eyes.

The wind chimes rhyme with her voice.

that drifting leaf rhymes with her spirit.

Bare to the skin, flushed in rose tones,

she rhymes away her fears and broken bones.

Her soul, like a cup of coffee,

(no cream, simply sugar please)

is warm, ambient, and awakened at last.