is miracle. Turtle shell. Xylem.
The black and white stripes
on the long antennae of the beetle
that landed today on my sleeve.
Rose light on the cliffband.
That two people meet at all.
That they love. That they straddle
what hurts and what brings them bliss.
Hot springs. Apricots. The impulse to weep.
Feeling the sole of the foot open
like a fountain each time it touches the earth.
Green fields. Figs. How the dark
makes a communion of your shadow and mine.
How we unfold and unfold and unfold
and unfold again. Always more to open,
more to learn, and always less
of which I am certain. Miracle
in the voice that sings. Miracle of fire.
Miracle in the way the same hand holds on
even as it lets go. And the scent of rain.
The deep orange of sunflower. Prickle of burr.
How a woman becomes a poem. How a day
becomes a hymn. How another person can
make the world shine if we only let them in.
And how many miracles of which we know nothing,
how they happen all the time, how a world
begins to unravel and the fixing
is in the not fixing.