POEM - The Offering

Not gold, hammered thin and cold to catch the sun's last glance,

Nor jewels ripped from secret earth, to dazzle and entrance.

This weight within my cupped hands, held close against the breast,

Is born of quieter commands, put slowly to the test

By patient hours, by silent thought, by friction, heat, and strain –

A distillation dearly bought, a residue of pain

And fleeting joy, like scattered leaves that briefly catch the light.

Forged not in fire the smith receives, but in the inner night

Where doubt and hope perform their dance on shifting, unseen sand.

I shaped it not by measured chance, but with a trembling hand

That learned its craft through countless slips, through awkward, fumbling starts,

Through weary days and bitten lips, and solitary hearts.

It holds the scent of rain on dust, the echo in the shell

Of vanished seas, the quiet trust where broken things can dwell

And mend, perhaps, or find new form. It carries too the trace

Of bitter frost, the sudden storm that swept across the face

Of planned endeavour, leaving bare the vulnerable, naked ground.

Yet woven in, beyond compare, a softer thread is found:

The fragile strength of mornings new, the unexpected grace

That shimmered through when shadows grew and filled the bounded space.

It is not perfect, smooth, or grand – its edges catch the skin,

A testament to where I stand, the places I have been,

The rough-hewn truth, the unrefined, the parts I couldn't hide,

The fragile, hopeful, human kind of offering held inside.

The path is worn, a silent track towards the ancient stone,

The weathered altar, curved and black, where many stand alone

To place their burdens, hopes, or fears. The air is thick and still,

Suspended between passing years, awaiting conscious will.

My footsteps sound too loud, too crude, upon this hallowed ground.

Doubt whispers, cold and sharp and shrewd: Is this small thing profound

Enough? Is it a fitting weight to balance cosmic scales?

Or just a gesture born too late, where every effort fails?

Yet deeper still, beneath the dread, a quiet current flows –

The simple truth of what I've bled, the only gift I know.

Not barter for a granted plea, nor coin to buy reprieve,

But honest witness, simply: See. This fragment I believe

Is essence of the life I've led, the sum of all my strife.

I place it here, this humble bread, this kernel of my life.

The stone is cool, accepting, vast. Its surface holds no gleam,

Absorbing offerings from the past like fragments of a dream.

I lower my hands, release the hold, and set the object down.

It rests there, neither bright nor bold, upon that weathered crown

Of silent earth and patient rock. No thunder rends the air,

No sudden key within a lock, no proof beyond compare.

Just stillness settles, deep and wide, a vast, embracing hum

That holds the offering inside the place where it has come

To rest. The weight within my chest, so long a part of me,

Lifts slightly, leaving in its stead a strange tranquility –

Not emptiness, but space made new, a hollow clean and deep,

Where something else might yet accrue while ancient forces sleep

Or watch. The act itself, complete, becomes the only sign.

Surrender makes the moment sweet, a consecrated line

Drawn in the dust. I turn away, the altar at my back,

Carrying only light of day and purpose on the track.

The crafted weight remains behind, absorbed within the whole,

A silent, resonating mind within the sacred bowl

Of time and stone. Its journey done, its substance now released

From binding expectation's gun, from demanding the very least

Assurance of a trade. It stands as testament alone

To open, vulnerable commands made before the unknown

Threshold of meaning. Let it lie, where all true offerings go –

Not measured by the watching eye, but by the depth of flow

That brought it forth. The giver, freed, walks lighter on the earth,

Having planted a tiny seed whose value, from its birth,

Was never in the form it took, the gleam or measured pound,

But in the courage it forsook to place it on the ground

Of the unknowable, the vast, the altar without name,

And trust that nothing given lasts unchanged, beyond the frame

Of our small reckoning. The art is in the letting go,

The offering of the open heart, the only truth we know.

Short Summary

"The Offering" explores the profound act of presenting something deeply personal and hard-won – not a material treasure, but the distilled essence of one's lived experience, crafted through struggle, joy, and vulnerability. The poem details the object's intangible nature, the solitary journey to a sacred place, the moment of surrender onto an ancient altar, and the resulting quiet transformation within the giver. It emphasizes that the true value lies not in the form of the gift, nor in any guaranteed return, but in the courage of honest presentation and the sacred release found in letting go before the vast unknown.