Dedicating a rhyme, for a dear friend of mine

This rhyme is written for Mariam, my dear friend,
To who I am grateful, to no end.

Before she took matters in her hand,
Rhyming was something I could never stand.

The only rhyme I could ever write,
No matter how much I would fight,

Were the following two lines,
From the scores of literary mines:

"A merry month is December,
Though we don't have much cucumber."

I'm sure you understand my plight,
When at the mention of rhyme, my brain would be halfway in flight.

The credit of this fire, my friend, goes to you,
My rhyme is colourful and no longer blue.