On my way to the barn
to get zucchini from the freezer
I noticed I was skipping.
It was not so much that I was skipping,
rather that I was being skipped.
Something was skipping through me
and I was the instrument,
the practice, the pleasure of skip.
There were no golden sunbeams
filtering down. And there was no
angelic choir singing a silvery ahhhhhhh!
But I knew as much as I’ve ever known anything
that I was a part of a miracle happening.
The Saturday afternoon was gray
and growing grayer still.
It was not even four o’ clock. And a miracle!
A miracle. A miracle even as new clouds
arose, even as old clouds grew gray, as they will.