The Yellow Cup Poem by Edmund V. Strolis
The Yellow Cup
Her tiny hands held the mug, fingers traced each crack and scrape.
Twas rare to find it out of sight for two moments in a day.
Worn was the handle, near vanished the rose, a mere hint of pink inlaid.
but the cup of yellow still held its' brilliance, as if by angels made.
Was it true the story of a mother lost and the depth of her dear sorrow?
Empty cup waiting for a yesterday, yet too full to hold tomorrow.
Brilliantly and eloquently composed, Edmund. You have a talent. Thanks
I loved this poem! It's interesting how certain well worn items hold the key to important memories and feelings. You so vividly describe this cup as metaphor. The last two lines are disturbing and a little haunting. A quiet, sad, but beautiful poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/24/2024 12:19:01 AM # 1.0.0.1119
This poem was by an angel made. A comfort in the sadness. Stunning!