Enough, maybe:
the owl in the tree,
her sleeping face in the morning,
the red tip of her yellow beak.
Enough, bitter green tea
in the perfect blue cup.

Time passes.
Reality of the absence,
indication that the presence mattered.
There is no conjuring
will summon it again.

Enough, the January lettuce
sprouting in the cellar, under the lights.
Faces of friends and strangers
over their coffee cups
in the corner café.

Once in a dream,
a baby told me it needed to be changed,
but I looked for food,
never asking its hunger.
Once Augustine wrote of the god-shaped
missing piece, the restlessness.
They tell me it is enough
for me to open the door.

But the door is open,
or there is no door.

Enough, then,
dough rising in the bowl,
scent of soup on the stove.
Enough, the love
webbing like wild vines
from each beginning of time.

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