Cup Someone whose cup is full has no need. Nothing new can be poured into them. Someone whose cup is dry is thirsty, grateful and accepting of whatever rain comes. Let this be no delicate shower. Let it be the storm that pummeled Noah— a flood to drown a world of preconceptions. Let it hoist the spirit on wild swells of trust, creaking arc, wondrously alive— scratching, slithering, whinnying, with a host of marvelous beasts. What one can do in this universe is small. What might be achieved with open heart and diligent hands is enormous and sacred. If God can be found, let Him be found in art. Let Him be found in service, a readiness to act, and in the sensual pleasures of sun on vine after rain. Bird returning with the tiniest of twigs.
Alfred Fournier is a writer and community volunteer living in Phoenix, Arizona. His poems have appeared in Plainsongs, The Main Street Rag, Third Wednesday, Kind Writers, Ocotillo Review and elsewhere.
Amethyst Review 