Maternal (with song)

Lipped like cherubs, rung like roses:

these are the lenses your case encloses.

Neither half-full nor dourly sweet,

nearly not spilt as a vessel can be;

dearly not spent as a vessel replete

with trappings madescent, inwardly.

Complete, it seems, is merely a seam

set too snug to sum, two in-between;

reseen, at last, in that whirling pool

of passions promised, deluge in full.

No cup can’t spill, no time can’t tell

the kinds of places our hours till;

kin kindness is tasted, your deep well,

though your chalice you keep: thine own will.

God is thy portion and thy cup resplendent,

but whose name do you call to raise transcendent?