I am the words in the poem,
Each letter a separate part of my b-o-d-y.

I am the space between stanzas

Where you read between the lines

But never notice me.

I am the creative imagination
That breathes summer into wintry verses
And brings the imagery to life.

I am the couplet
That connects two lonesome phrases.

I am the i·am·bic heart
That counts out the syl·la·bles
And keeps lines at sev·en beats.

I am the smooth-flowing rhymes:
A brass bell’s ringing chimes.

I am the helpful simile
Comparing one thing to another
Like a bird flying between two branches.

I am the poem’s end
That can sometimes be abrupt
Or leave you hanging off a –