Widow's mites

Two was everything
But that’s what she gave.
When the bare table and the empty chair across the room
Still murmured of loss and of need
Two small coins held loosely were her gratitude.
While the proud postured nearby
Clanking coins and counting balances
Eyes narrowed to the focus of the number
She opened her eyes wide to joy
And gave lavishly a gift not measured by worth.
While those who must account in lined up columns,
Saw less about the story of the blessing
She saw more than the balance that was left,
And poured out all in thanks.


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