Enough

Sadly, when you are old, enough is never enough.
Enough is less than you want.
More than you need.
But maybe enough is never enough even for the young.

An old folk tale has guest after guest come in.
Each asks if there is enough.
The gracious hostess always says, “There’s just enough” .
Enough never becomes less than enough.

Even for the wild young, enough runs out quickly.
For the old it runs out quicker still.
For the hostess enough is always just enough.
For me just enough is just too little.

If I have more than enough will others have too little?
Can some have more without others having less?
I get that less is more and moral,
If not everyone gets enough.

But not with wine.
Or food.
Or sex.
Or beauty.

Surely there is enough for all: Wine is not oil, we can grow grapes.
Food is not a gem, we can grow grain.
Sex only requires someone else and God knows there are plenty of them.
And beauty seems limitless.

But what of love?
Is there a shortage of that?
Can we grow love?
Is there enough–even more than enough–for every one?

Are we searching for love,
Searching even to love ourselves,
When enough is not enough?
Or is that a trite truth?

Is the truth in wine deeper?
That love is so rare,
We drink to wait and hope.
Until, if ever, enough is enough.