There is a cup, made of clay, not much to look at as it is.
It sits in quite obscure a place, overlooked and always missed.
Few have ever laid eyes on it, fewer still know what it’s for
but there it sits, plain and simple, among goblets not a star.
Once a day some elder fellow, picks it up with steady hand,
and pours it in a flask he carries, each day he returns again.
No one pays him much attention; no one seems to really care
what he’s doing much less why, but every evening he is there.
When it rains he’s there more often, empties that cup several times,
Into the flask with calm intent, that aging gent, with soft sad eyes.
One day I could wait no longer and asked him: What is this you do?
He looked at me and softly said: “I empty this old cup for you”.
Surprised at this I engaged further: “I did not leave that cup here.”
To which he said “But you did fill it; these are all the angels tears.”
Jack Scruffy Ainsworth
3/18/15