everyone is abundant,
though we count ourselves in lack—
empty pockets of time,
cups chipped by comparison.
abundance hums anyway
in the body’s quiet labor:
lungs rehearsing mercy,
hearts giving more than asked.
the crowded bus of thoughts,
the overgrown fields of memory,
the way grief itself proves
we had much to lose.
everyone is abundant
with moments we didn’t choose
and still survived,
with names we answer to in dreams.
look—hands full of hours,
eyes stocked with light,
even the ache says:
there was plenty here.
Thank-you for reading.
Remember there are many paths back to God.
Follow your own path,
Brenda Marie
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Wonderful poetry, Brenda.