On Monday mornings, full of fire,
She slowly stirs the tea she sips.
And though the day burns through with ire,
There's orange on her lips.

On Tuesdays during weekday rain,
She hears a rainstorm as it speaks,
And though the thunder speaks of pain,
There's jasmine on her cheeks.

On Wednesdays as a drought pulls by,
In shade, she sleeps, in perfect sin,
And though the world's too parched to cry,
There's maple on her chin.

On Thursdays, while earth's frosted white,
The flame beyond her eyes persists,
And though the snow obstructs all sight,
There's nectar on her wrists.

On Friday evenings, dark as coal,
The star-lit curtain's hers to wear,
And though no starlight marks the pole,
There's citrus in her hair.

Her weekday scents give constant call
And ask I taste them all the while,
But Saturday, holds, best of all,
Her pepperminted smile.