More

I'm not saying it's a masterpiece,
I'm only saying
there was nothing more I could add,
not without taking away
from what was already there.
Even though I am a beginner at this
I could see another stroke
could wreck whatever balance
might have been achieved,
because the paint,
already dry,
would never allow me
the privilege of a library, or a parent
(once there's enough)
who can decide, for every book or toy,
to give an old unwanted one away;


Some strokes, some actions, once applied
have a way of becoming permanent.

Perhaps it is a luxury --
this knowing when we have enough,
this knowing one more possession,
one more award,
one more lover,
will necessitate
the tossing of the old;
the luxury, that is, of understanding
that making new friends
and keeping old
may soon prove to be a strain on time
and so we stop,
and find ourselves in that dark cave of knowing:
this is quite enough;
there is no room for more
without losing what we have
and so we turn to those we love,
and stroking now with hands,
no brushes now, no paint,
but just a touch,
a sweet caress to celebrate
there is no need for more.