580 – Frail

A frail painted cup
Waiting on the table.
The smell of fresh tea
Caresses the air.

The first
Hot, delicate cup,
Brings warmth
To my cold hands.

The second
Golden, robust cup,
Brings peace
To my lost thoughts.

The third
Strong, stringent cup,
Brings a smile
To my old soul.

The fourth
Slightly bitter cup,
Brings the whole circle
Back home.

The rain falls.
I’m whole.

• • •

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