Enough for the poet to have this little life with this little roof and such other things to call his own. Enough that his table buckles under with ripe food. Enough for Him to have a fire to Keep him warm through Winter's cold fury. Enough for his little legs to take him to fields and rivers. Enough that his eyes should count stars and wake up to the first ray of light. Lord, what are you that even these lips should fold in prayer when it praises your name