Measured thoughts

Why is it
This rounded cup chosen by someone out there
So long ago to be
A universal measurement
Free of sides that are not circular-
Not stopped and cut off at an edge
Just going round and round,
A cup you can fill with the softest flour
To make the finest of bread,
Adding life ingredients giving texture
And weight,
A cup filled and carefully,
Oh so gently scraping off the excess un needed silky powder.
I am told that weight is a more accurate measure
For those abundant ingredients
Slowly filtered into
The creation,
Adding one thing and then
Another to finally make a lump
To be formed into something.
As it rises and blends with heat
Adding friction, the weight becomes more palpable,
Yet it began somewhere
In the mind of someone,
with that cup of ingredient,
With a universal way
Of measuring.
So how then is love measured?
If one were to take a cup,
And let’s say water as the needed piece of the scene,
Fill the cup to overflowing till it spills down,
And running outwards in all directions,
Wouldn’t it then weigh in a way unmeasurable?
If each drop shared from one to another
Circling this big wide world
Would it flow back?

Perhaps it would be almost feathery light,
Like butterfly kisses leaving their memory
On a mother’s cheek,
Memories to carry fondly when that child is no longer present,
And the heart is left with only the weight of sadness
That seems so very heavy and full
To the point that comes,
That moment when the tears flow over their edges,
Over the lid of eyelashes
Falling down like a stormy torrential rain.
The rain where the skies lay hard and grey,
Seemingly never-ending
Yet the drops will fill a cup
Somewhere left out on a table,
And that cup will become too full,
The weight too much
And the wind will blow ripples across the surface.
See, reach out and lift that cup,
The steaming coffee or tea and feel the weight
As you wake to another day
Will it be full? Overflowing perhaps?
Or will you find it like love,
As sweet and light as cotton candy in a child’s hand
As he or she walk through the county fair,
Sticking to all it touches.
Will it be
As precious as a memory that you reach to grab
Only to find it attached like a message
To a round balloon that was inflated
And set free to find
That lonely soul somewhere far away
Who needed that sphere,
That needed to know

 It found its way to them.

Because air measured the distance and brought it to land
in the yard beyond the window,
And something in them says look up,
Look out beyond to see what sits waiting for you,
And you grab a towel,
Wipe off the excess flour from your hands
And you dab at the smear of it on your cheek
And suddenly find yourself smiling,
Happy for the precious gift.
You feel the weightlessness of joy,
Now how do you measure that?