The Beggar Was Not Him

My hands in empty pockets, stuck out tongue, I smiled vain at a beggar's outstretched hand, Hoping, he'd my helplessness understand; The early sun was mild, guiltless like young. Knowing my plight, he smiled, gestured at me, My response was what I had— counter smile, He seemed to appreciate my misery, Felt, it was not a rehearsed clever guile, And tried to put me to ease, ‘oh it's fine, It's good enough if one wishes to give', Moved, I held his hand into helpless mine, His gesture touched me, caused my heart to heave. And oft when we give, far nigh little give, Sans giving any, so much we receive! ______________________________________________________ And for long I wondered who was generous; who the beggar was amidst us. ______________________________________________________ Sonnets | 08.01.18 |