by Dorothea Barth ©2009
Perplexed, uncomprehending I beheld
My chalice standing empty without fruit
Its procreative destiny rebelled
Amidst its hollow echoes questions root:
O chalice, how to fill you to the brim!
Would you prefer a different type of brew?
Archetype of all that’s feminine,
I’d heed your predilections if I knew;
“Serene,” I think, is all the chalice said
‘Twas then that music flowed, a wondrous note,
And verse and prose converged within my head
Until the chalice nearly overflowed;
A simple chalice, filled with liquid pure
Reminds me of my contemplative cure