Tea-cup

I pour myself out,
Spill my soul upon the sidewalk,
Stare at the empty and hollow inside.
In my hands
I hold the cup
That once held me.
My reflection gapes back
From its shiny bowl.
Is my love so easily misplaced,
Lost in the everyday filling and tipping
Of my impure heart?

This shallow tea-cup,
Blue-green like the summer horizon
With rounded sides and one handle,
Reminds me of my grandmother's tea set.
Perhaps it belongs to her.
But her set was plastic,
Light and dull;
This cup is heavy and it shines.
The clay is mine, I know it well,
But the color is of you,
As is the glaze.
Whose is this piece of shell?

And then I know my foolish mind
And laugh
The shifting of the ocean tides
Does not disturb the moon.
The shoes wear out,
But not the feet.
The artist's tool is not the brush,
But the eye.
I can drink a thousand dregs,
Spill a thousand drops,
Break the cup itself,
And none of this will matter.

You taught me to make the cup,
You taught me to drink;
All else is water. 

--Megan Morris, meikundayo@yahoo.com