A Cupped Hand

by Mary Wacaster










 I stood at a stream
And watched the water flow.
I decided to take a drink
Before I should go.
I cupped my hand --
Scooped some up,
But it flowed back into the sand;
No water could I sup.
And I thought to myself,
Like the pleasures of this earth,
What you try to hold in your hand
Can surely cause a dearth.
But a living spring of water
From which I can drink,
Flows from a heavenly river, 
As I stand upon its brink.