Small Things

poem

The Widow’s Mite by Jesus Mafa

Can the oil, sleek and dripping,
river down the baked earthen sides
of this vessel,
 
like the widow poured out,
hardly believing,
a fountain from her shaking hand?
 
I’m standing before almost bare shelves 
wondering when you’ll sweep in:
fresh fruit tumbling to the floor.
 
You are the craftsman and the oil, 
the gardener and the fruit.
I am the vessel heated in your blaze.
 
Fill me up.
It’s not enough to have heard
from you yesterday.
 
Keep me overflowing.
Why do you let your children
know hunger?
 
That they might stumble
yearning
to your door?
 
Don’t let me end up
tripping on my sandals in haste
to get back to the wedding.
 
May I never know another tumble
in a dark street
looking for oil.
 
Multiply these moments
as I hold out with tired fingers
my widow’s mite,
 
this scrap of time
that only you could value.
Roar like wind

through the uncurtained tabernacle
of your presence 
and teach me the taste of grace.
 
Your heart bends
toward the poor and forgotten,
calls the hungry
 
blessed, looks with love light
on the trembling need of a mother
glad to be called a dog
 
in order to show you her daughter.
She knew the weight
of your crumbs.

And so I come.
Your compassion always
outmatches desperation.
 
If all I have are quiet seconds, 
and all I want is to find you 
in this place,
 
then I trust that you will
make a miracle of our time
together
 
and allow me to be changed
by just one glance 
from your face.
 
You are here in the small things:
glad to receive our pennies
and always more than able
 
to make that speck of desire,
a mustard seed,
move mountains.