Though I am of many years,
What I know of love would fill a tiny tin cup,
rusted and worn, battered and abused.
Were I to measure the tears
They would fill oceans deep
From the nights I cried myself to sleep.
For love, in spite of its splendor,
Has brought nothing but defeat.
But attracted to the beauty of the rose,
I mindlessly reach out for one last touch.
Forgetting the prick of the thorn
With every waking morn,
Hoping for more,
I hold out my cup for one last pour.
copyright 2015 Patricia Newman-Harris