Meeting Place
On the mug
my mother held -
where birds she loved
flew
under the storm
painted in grey,
over blue spruce, green pine,
and brown earth -
for years
she and I
almost touched
on its rim.
Our hands
almost joined
on its grip.
Then careless,
I let it slip
and shatter.
With no where else
to rendezvous,
we'd never
be together
again.
poem by Joe Oppenheimer
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
No comments until now.