One Glass

In this hand, I hold the sun

and a season’s worth of rain with

one thunderous storm breaking wild,

shredding a shattering, scattering wind.

In this hand, a soft shimmer of

starlight, wheeling, burning, turning

around a silver moon, waxing gibbous and

then a slight, sliver whispering crescent.

 

In this hand, a memory

a sweet summer day long since past.

Days and nights cupped in this glass and now

Now, wine will never again be ordinary.

 

 

 

 

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