Enough

Is it enough to watch a
sunset, to mark the passing of
yet another ordinary day?
The manifestation of the good,
constant god that indeed
provides, around whom we
most certainly orbit - is it
enough to witness this disc
sliding beyond the hills?  The
potency of its strength
evident once it has disappeared: 
the rosy glow of the earth
behind me after its vanishing, the
mounting darkness a contrast
to our beacon’s warmth.
 
Is it enough to coax a
seed into life?  To prepare a
space for its stored energy to
inhabit, a loamy soft bed
where it can stretch - roots and
stalk - and turn its face,
eventually, to the light. 

Is it enough to love as best we

can, which is to say, often
inadequately, now and again
without seams that pucker and
bind.  There are moments
fleeting as the exclamation
of color that builds at day’s end -
moments of weightlessness,
compassion, when we fold
into one another, purely,
simply, without terms. 

Is it enough to write a

poem?  To fill the page with
words that lack precision,
and surge and ebb,
stilted in their development. 
Words are just the tools I use. 
The same words that I struggle
with, these are the ones
that Shakespeare and Tennyson
shepherded, now entrusted to us. 

If all we have is each other,

this space the only comfort, our
solace, a soft carpet upon
which we soothe our weary
soles and souls, let us find
wonder in this just as we might
greet the sun’s return tomorrow: 
a miracle of gratitude, the lost
traveler, at last, journeyed home.