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"The Quiet Wealth of Enough"

A cup of cold water beading with sweat

in a calloused hand,

a roof drumming softly beneath a night rain,

a wool coat wrapped around the shoulders like a faithful dog settling at the hearth,

bread still warm from the oven, breaking open like a small sunrise releasing its steam.

“Enough…”

 Begins here— in the plain shine of a spoon,

in dry socks beside the bed,

in the kettle's whisper before dawn,

in a body sheltered from the wind as a seed rests beneath dark soil,

needing nothing more than earth, moisture, and time.

Then…

Comes the deeper abundance:

a familiar voice crossing a room like lamplight through winter fog,

the clasp of a friend's hand,

thick and certain as old roots beneath a forest floor,

purpose arriving each morning not as a trumpet but as the patient turning of seasons.

A quiet mind is wealth.

A rested heart is wealth.

Laughter around a table is a treasure chest without any lock.

The soul fed by belonging grows full like a river after spring thaw—

not swollen with excess, but moving steadily, reflecting the sky.

Consumerism…

Arrives dressed in bright colors and polished chrome,

its promises flickering across glowing screens like moths trapped in electric light.

Closets swell like overfed cattle.

Garages become tombs filled with forgotten desires.

Yesterday's treasure gathers dust in shadowed corners,

discarded for today's passing fascination.

The cost is measured not only in dollars

but in hours traded away like flecks of gold shaved from a life,

in forests stripped bare for fleeting fashions,

in the slow burial of contentment beneath mountains of packaging and want.

The more the hands accumulate,  

the more the spirit reaches outward,

empty as a bucket with no bottom.

Yet…

Want, when crowned king, drags iron chains through the spirit.

Never enough money,

never enough praise,

never enough possessions—

the hunger multiplies like rats in a granary,

gnawing through peace until even victory tastes of ash.

Time…

The one purse that can never be refilled—empties coin by coin with every needless chase.

Each day is a vault of unminted riches,

yet we spend its bright currency on things soon abandoned.

The mind…

Becomes a mule burdened with golden bricks,

the heart a treadmill grinding beneath invisible feet,

the body a cart horse whipped toward horizons that retreat with every step.

Meanwhile, a deer lowers its head to a clear stream, drinks, and is rich;

a hawk circles the wind and is rich;

a fox sleeps beneath the shelter of leaves and is rich.

The animal knows the ancient arithmetic of life:

water,

food,

shelter,

rest.

Only man so often mistakes desire for necessity,

forgets the quiet wealth of enough,

and bows before greed and material things—

that restless menace from which the wild creatures remain forever free.