A word for which there is no rhyme.
And why would there be? I give you, instead,
A thousand words, yet none approximate
The elusive sublime that is the
Crunch of salt on the plate, the crisp
Of the browned edge, the translucent gloss
On the yolk, the promise of fullness on
The sun-soaked slice. Indeed, the
Transience of the cherry blossoms on the
Spring-time blue say more about freshness than
Any words could do, and yet, line for line,
There is no verse equal to the limpid shine
That will leave its fragrance on your fingers
Long after its gone. No, the sublimity of
The unrhymable is felt in what lingers long
After all rhyming is done.


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