The miracle is not
that I have walked out onto the lake
in the fading light, the sunset
on the water a path, wavering,
though unbroken.
Nor that I have been healed of my blindness
by the mud from the freshly
planted soil in the garden.
Raised from the place where I had been brought low.
The miracle is this: that today I wake,
the birds so early singing
over the sagging gutters,
the flattened can in the street
rattling with every passing car,
& the crumb of bread,
the small red stain of wine still
on the table from last night’s meal, where after,
the two of us sat on the porch
side by side wondering
what might come next. Though perhaps
there is no tomorrow
but only this moment,
the creaky springs of the swing,
the clouds holding their breath
before the next storm,
& the white flower that talks
without speaking from the crack
in the sidewalk no one notices as they pass—
everything just as it is in this ordinary
& extraordinary silence