The Yellow Cup Comments
Her tiny hands held the mug, fingers traced each crack and scrape.
Twas rare to find it out of sight for two moments in a day.
Worn was the handle, near vanished the rose, a mere hint of pink inlaid.
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Brilliantly and eloquently composed, Edmund. You have a talent. Thanks
I loved this poem! It's interesting how certain well worn items hold the key to important memories and feelings. You so vividly describe this cup as metaphor. The last two lines are disturbing and a little haunting. A quiet, sad, but beautiful poem.
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7/31/2025 12:00:41 PM # 1.0.0
This poem was by an angel made. A comfort in the sadness. Stunning!