enough

If the love fails to connect,
a chill settles into the space
between lovers,
between children and mothers,
between self and others.

It's a funny thing,
enough.
It’s hard to hold onto,
and hard to assess.
Yet,
life is spent seeking,
ENOUGH
for deep rest.

The chill that frosts
the tips of the heart,
seeks respite in proxies,
like faith, hope, and art.

Sometimes,
we settle for proxies,
that widen the rupture,
like praise and entitlement,
greed, envy, and power.

Where is enough?
And how can I find it?
I know when it's missing,
and I know when it’s home.
But its still so elusive,
I’m writing this poem.

I wonder if
enough might live
in the vulnerable places
from where we generously give?

Or the humbling moments,
the settling in,
and the rebalancing,
of the nervous system?

Could it possibly be
that enough is plenty
when we forgive ourselves
each other
and what feels so empty?

Maybe the lack
of enough
that we feel
is simply an invitation
that it's time to heal.

© Blythe Dolores Utz, 2023