Mug

I am the mug on the drying rack

clean, dry,

still warm

from the rinse.

Not abandoned

just resting.

Ready to be needed.

The morning has come and gone,

but there’s still time for tea

or cocoa

or maybe something strange

like home made blueberry juice.

I used to ache when emptied,

feeling the loss in every drop,

hopes and dreams pouring down the drain.

But now I know instead

that it’s simply in my nature

to be filled, then given,

then emptied,

only to be open to receiving once again.

This hollow isn’t lack.

No, no.

It’s invitation.

It’s the soft whispers of

I'll be back.

So I sit still,

quiet and clean,

not craving,

just available.

Open.

There’s a quiet grace in being ready,

useful, yet unused,

and at peace with it all.