From Zarephath

Glaring sun

The sticks crack

There is no rain

  Hope is starved

Skies are closed

Yet this man

Asks for more than

  I can give

One small cake

Is repaid

With a promise:

  Endless flour?

Gather up

Neighbor’s jars

Pour abundance

 From my own!

No? Not that?

My mistake

What, exactly,

 Did he say?

Not extra

Not safety

Sufficiency

Surrender

Each baking

Is my last

One bare handful

   Fully spent

Then in trust

I must reach

Through the void of

  Endless doubt

But when hope

Seems undone

I’m relieved by

  Dusty hands

Praise to Him

Who gives both

Empty jars and

Daily bread