Poetry by Sandra Fees

THE EMPTY CUP

The earth gathers a wingspan 

of leaving beneath my feet 

recedes like an exhausted lover. 

I try to read the future in a sky

flecked with tea leaves. 

Below me a canyon 

rimmed in gold vermeil

opens like a bird’s beak at dawn

calling with sudden conviction

and what I want is a bone-china 

cup of emptiness 

poured by masterful hands

steeped in rivers of the mind 

that ...

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