Brewing up Rhymes

From time to time, I’m given to ponder,

An alchemist zebra who’s given to wander,

The Everfree forest, despite all the danger.

Gathering herbs with which she’s no stranger.

From potion to poison each she has mastered,

Brewing her cures to solve each disaster.

With leaf and seed, with stem and root,

She crafts oils, elixirs and salves to boot.

Long have I wondered in my meditations,

Why Zecora would converse - without provocation -

With measured meter and couplets paired,

Into rhyming verse wherever she fairs.

It’s has been in my mind that far in the past,

Under a curse Zecora fell, that was cast,

By creatures whose nature was whimsy and malice,

To discomfit the zebra and disrupt her ballast.

Others have said that it’s a game that she plays,

A tradition to sharpen her mind through each day.

But perhaps the truth is simply that she,

Finds joy in language, by waft and by weave.

Whatever the case, it brings me a smile,

To follow along each loquacious mile,

And if I had my way, I tell you true,

I would count this zebra as my friend, too.