More Self Talk

The task of genius, and man is nothing if not genius, is to keep the miracle alive, to live always in the miracle, to make the miracle more and more miraculous, to swear allegiance to nothing, but live only miraculously, think only miraculously, die miraculously.
—Henry Miller

There are days when I feel guilty
about not feeling wonderful, though
the world is surely full of wonder. Like today,

an open sky fills with translucent clouds
and the low light is warm through the car window
and it’s the birthday of the woman who gave me my life

and in every shadow alongside the road, a white
dusting of snow holds radiance. But I see the miracles
more than feel them. I know what it’s like

to shake with awe, to be one with nine million
sun bursts, to go inside a color and look around
with eyes all astonished and wide. Today

I am more deciduous than evergreen,
preferring a barren grace. Something
is missing, I both know and do not know

the what of it. I try to cajole myself into
joy just by noticing the way the mum petals
dress in both crimson and gold. And it works,

and it doesn’t. Just because I am surrounded
by miracles doesn’t mean I am happy. Surely
part of the miracle is to lean as deeply as we can

into whatever mood the day brings.


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