Empty is the pot when the tea is done
Empty is the stream aft it’s ceased to run.
Empty is the nest when the chicks have flown
Empty is the pod when the seeds are sown.
Empty are the stalks when the summer’s fled
Empty are the hands when the palms are spread.
Empty is the dream in waking we’ve forgot
As empty as a thought when it tarries not.
Though empty is the heart after love has died,
Far emptier the life when its tears have dried.
Claire V. Bogdanos 