A crown that fits inside his hand tells a tale of old.
Tis’ fine silver that lights on palm’s worn face,
gentle weight of comfort, promise and wealth,
the metal soft and cold.
But in his hand the cold did fade, warmth then filled that place.
Black smear on surface worn with time and age,
records the loving touch which once was there,
a charm worth more than lace.
T’was when I held that charm so dear in my weakened hands;
I felt the memory of his sweet words,
lilting softly against a battered heart,
and thus upon an eager ear, every word now lands.
” Save this dollar, twill be worth a lot someday” he said.
Worth exists as more than just earthly wealth,
no longer is this coin mere currency,
but love from him instead.