Cup

White,
Clay,
and round.

I see the reflection
of light
inside your rim.

The steam comes forth
from inside of you
from the hope within.

And there is a handle
I think
it is to hold on to.

Clay

Each new day I hold this cup

A circle made of clay

And each new day I drink from it

And even so today.

 

I never think that I will rise

And find myself complete

And always wanting freedom now

But living on the street.

 

I fill my cup up every day

And every day it drains away

It disappears from this here cup–

This circle made of clay.