In the alcove off the living room sits,
An offering plate on a very small table.
As to why it has a special place there,
For a memory of a church now gone.
The plate had found it’s very own way,
Down the street, in the flood of Katrina.

Greenish blue felt matted and a little
Wrinkled, pulling from the brass plate.
No money compared, that served the
Cost, and just as I had seen it floating,
As if it gave it’s own penitence for all,
Flooding my heart in it’s own search.

©2007, Ron Globe