Who Is She

She never asked to be received,
never demanded room,
she learned to make a banquet
out of silence and assume.

She gathered what was scattered,
called fragments something whole,
carried light in open hands
and never told it took a toll.

She begged for drops of tenderness
from vows that once were sworn,
and held them close like treasure
though they cut her when they formed.

She cleaved to crumbs of affection
as if they were bread enough,
pressing scarcity to her heart
and calling it love.

They mistook her gentle waiting
for a hunger she possessed,
confused her depth for emptiness,
her stillness for unrest.

She held the weight of broken things
without a single sound,
and made a place for others
where no place could be found.

Her presence shifted atmospheres,
no thunder, fire, or flame,
just gravity that pulled the room
to rearrange its frame.

She fed the hearts of many
while forgetting her own need,
stood steady through the leaning
of every fragile plea.

Ever living on the remnants
on mercy and on grace,
always seeing Who had built the ground
and shaped the holding place.

Would oh but truth at last appear,
Revealing, steady, able—
she who was er’ seeking crumbs…
Ner knew she was The Table.