You stand there, elegant as Butterfly Woman,
a halo of white lilies in your pale, gossamer locks.
Skirts of aubergine and amber synonyms swirl
in the breeze of lip licking meter.
You stir the cauldron of dictionaries, words
that never touch my ears. I see you
toss in the rosemary of metaphor, a pinch
of saucy simile, a waft of allegory,
followed by a taste of alliteration.
You lift a wooden ladle to your lips.
A fleeting frown. Deep in your apron
pocket, you call forth the nutmeg
of language, a foreign word, a bliss
of chocolate rhyme. Your ephemeral
cookbook shimmers with the suggestion
of couplet. You dribble a hint of haiku,
three drops of rhythm, a twinkle of sonnet,
a repetition of villanelle, a glossary
of mouth-watering Anglo Saxon,
a sprinkle of anonymous antonyms,
a smidge of stardust.
You peer through the amber vial
of Latin and allow three drops to fall.
Bring to a boil, simmer and chuckle.
Then your purple, velvet pointed pumps,
dainty on my window sill, waken
me to the breath of the unexpected.
I remain your faithful servant.