The Age of Just Enough

There once was a time
when enough was enough,
the world was like a cat,
curiously content
claws in, purring softly
it was the simple wants we carried
in the way children carry stones,
for the weight of them,
the comfort of their smoothness,
for something to call our own.

The dawn birthed its light
arriving much the same
way a perfect gift does,
too much and exactly right,
cloaking the ordinary
in a certain splendor
nobody realized sustained
their souls and bodies.

The age of just enough taught me
to keep a close watch in the peripheral,
where the shadows stretched
out their loving arms,
we saw treasure everywhere
the cracked cup on the windowsill
held the entire sky in its curve,
ignorant of its own fracture.

Then time loosened its belt,
sighed, then cinched again.
Memories, wants, and wishes
embroidered themselves into us
whether we wished them to or not,
Like indelible tattoos
some cradled and defined us,
while others stung,
each held their own meanings and lessons.

The things meant for us
are growing old alongside of us,
adding rings much
the same the way trees do,

Naturally, undeniable,
carrying that same smoldering promise
that first coaxed our hands open,
finger by finger,
into something that
resembles acceptance.

_EVW

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