Ambrosial seeds that sprouted song

entice the plum-pursed lips

gripping for the galaxies

confined to sullen sips.

A cup-eared chorus hollers back

to smooth the clods of clay

molded by the penchant of the potters who will play.

A honey-suckle sound escapes,

to which the bees reply,

“Had only we a gentry cup

our lot may never die.”

-Amy Struthers

(Image by: Aswin Raj)