Glass Half Empty
Life sat before me, a weathered cup of rain,
its crystal ribs catching the pale afternoon,
while shadows gathered like crows on a fence,
counting the losses before the harvest came.
I called the glass half empty,
a moon with a missing face,
a garden where autumn had stolen its roses,
a violin whose saddest strings remembered only winter.
Each disappointment became a pebble in my pocket,
dragging my footsteps through rivers of doubt.
The years were gray ships leaving the harbor,
their lanterns swallowed by fog before farewell.
Yet the old glass never argued.
It held what remained like a faithful well,
keeping fragments of dawn beneath its surface,
where forgotten stars floated like silver minnows.
I learned that life is not a banquet table,
but a patchwork quilt sewn with joy and sorrow,
a lighthouse standing against the salt-toothed sea,
its lamp refusing surrender to the night.
Even barren branches cradle spring in secret,
and snow-covered fields dream of wildflowers.
The heart itself is a cracked lantern,
its broken panes letting compassion escape.
Now when I raise that humble vessel,
I see neither emptiness nor abundance alone.
It is a mirror of mortal day,
half memory, half promise,
and every remaining drop
is a small sun,
still burning,
against the gathering dusk.
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