Mine was empty except
for a vague dampness,
a condensation,
at most a sprinkle,
not enough to stick a stamp
or wet one’s whistle,
a fly could lick it clean
and die of thirst,
yet I was content
to live in the desert
and flower each year
like prickly pear cactus,
my days a series
of evens and downs
but then he was born
and now my cup
runneth over,
like in the prayer,
exactly like in the prayer.