Words in a waltz

Taking off from Richa's suggestion that the idea in the "Cherry Crest" piece below could be extended to the whole inanimate world in general, the unvoiced, this poem gives voice to our favorite unvoiced spice, CLOVE.

In transient, yet evocative memories,
I swarm in, and infest her senses.
With a wanton-winged aura, I taint her fingers,
like catyrpels, on wet picket fences.

Pepper is fiery, its creepers snaky,
inflicting even, on stately teaks.
Cinnamon is numbing, cardamom feisty;
cumin smokes, coriander tweaks.

Mustard’s too mild, turmeric, too acute;
fennel, nutmeg, fenugreek, asafetida,
they all brim with an acerbic clout,
parching the gullet, singeing the viscera.

Be it summer - hot and humid,
or winter - frosty and dim,
I remain evergreen, and lucid;
the rest - mere dust-trails on the dipper rim.

And now, to stir out of my resting shell,
serenely wait, and grip my chapeau.
The chill’s heralding a sickly spell,
while the heat bids a coy adieu.

I shall burn, wither into smithereens,
I shall bop in the mortar, by my troth.
I shall soothe aches, and be the means
to rid the flu; I shall simmer in a broth.

She needs me, and I, her;
I’m clove - I reign supreme.
As her one-stop elixir,
I soothe, heal, and make her beam.

And with a wanton-winged aura
I shall taint her fingers.