The Glued Handle

A poem by Mary Lou Healy.

I hold it in my hand,
his paper-thin, translucent cup,
imagine the fragrance of its painted
pink and white apple blossoms.
My fingers trace the gold-edged rim,
the delicate curve of handle.
I can barely see the joining,
so painstaking the work,
so lovingly done. And I smile.
I find these memories of
my mother everywhere.

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