Enough Poem by James Murdock

So showered are our sensations across this nation of our deeply disturbed earth.
Our bulldozers all trounce like a pulsing crash betting at a northern jagged sound.

"Things reveal themselves in their passing away, " said the poet in a grey cottage.
She has revealed herself to me in her unnatural seasons, where citrus grows well

in South Georgia and alligators are slinking from the Altamaha to the Oconee.
Warmer water runs northward into the bellies of cool springs born from mountains.

Is there hope where the forest once stood and now doesn't? Is there peace in the
turning over of the fields? Is heaven in the heart of
people who toxify their

breakfast cereal? I have known hope in the eyes of a mother and lost it in those of
a farmer, leaving his fields behind him simply because those profane dollars would

not flow from his rivers or fall from the foliage of his old strong Quercus albas.
I have known hope in the homecoming of those peculiar young people who have

knelt beside their gardens to weed by hand and to nurture plants and animals with
civility in heart and beauty in mind, knowing of the downfalls of our civilization.

I have sought out those who live with the virtue of their own constitutions.
I have learned that to make a living is to have enough, and that enough is goddamn enough.