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Form is the wineglass from which I pour,
The many words and thoughts I store.
It holds vivid images blended there,
Subtle and smooth, or feelings austere.
Without form, words spill out everywhere,
Rambling forth like sea waves to the shore.
Like wasted wine losing body and taste,
Words without form were written in haste.
Form defines the poem, gives it identity.
Whether it's a sonnet, a haiku, or couplet maybe.
Like a house with words there residing,
Form keeps them intact, message flowing.
Cynthia Buhain-Baello ~~~09.13.17