Poetry

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The Widow’s Mite

Toothless
widowed
penniless
stricken
(once, by a stroke)
she tests our patience
with slurred words
and an unending
hard-to-follow
train of thought.

At prayer time
we inwardly
grimace
knowing (at her turn)
a quarter hour
may suffice.

But listen!
Her joy
her praise
her earnestness
her tears
are years
greater than ours,
her time
like God’s
limitless,
her scope
boundless.

This widow’s
inward light
pure, sincere
not man-directed
is, once inspected
the mighty widow’s mite
that cannot compare
to our “loftier”
prayer.

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