Just Enough
A poem
The midmorning sun
toasts my earlobes —
even the early hours
are orange with heat.
The purple hearts, moments ago,
stood tall with their night blooms,
but now droop heavy
before the honeybees arrive.
The ancient texts place
the Holy Land in the desert —
our western stories of self
are heirlooms from a people
who lived their lives
beneath an unforgiving sun.
The Desert Fathers say their God
is the God of “just enough” — doling out
only meager rations of shade,
a reminder that life
must be lived in seconds.
Their wisdom is found in stories of
the near-death traveler
happening upon a rotem tree —
really a bush — offering
just enough shade,
just enough refuge,
before they must return
to their wandering again.
Now I am here
on a hot hill country morning,
my is dog leashed up and
the desert sands of my neighborhood
are throwing mirages off the pavement —
and this is my wandering.
A friend in Connecticut
reported snow three weeks ago —
his heat to endure is
the cold.
And my brother has a strange
sojourn he makes each day
without leaving home.
The Story holds —
whatever heavy rays of
refinement one must endure,
living is about moving forward,
believing we might be gifted
just enough to reach
the next shady respite.
I can see the crepe myrtle on the corner
with bright purple blooms
scattered on the sidewalk,
like an overturned jewelry box,
offering a small reprieve under its
cinnamon bark — and just past it,
through the heat waves of my life,
there appears a sturdy oak with
west leaning shade, which will be,
for my dog and me,
just enough.
