If I were a cup
 
empty after spring’s great feast,
 
who would fill me up?

 
 
 

I take from the shelf
 
yet another empty cup—
 
spring melancholy.

 
 
 

So little is left
 
of the tea in my white cup—
 
an old pine topples.

 
 
 

First day of the month—
 
the tea in my cup grows cold
 
along with my prayers.

 
 
 

My father once drank
 
from the cup that I now drink—
 
deepening autumn.

 
 

Smoky autumn tea—
 
I marvel at the blessings
 
nestling in my cup.

 
 
 

First autumn cold snap—
 
my hands cradle a white cup
 
filled with steaming tea.

 
 

Late-summer breakfast—
 
black coffee leaks from a crack
 
in my old white cup.

 
 
 

Winter solitude—
 
tea leaks slowly from the crack
 
in my old white cup.

 
 
 

the tea in my cup
 
diluted with morning light—
 
autumn solitude