Some miracles
Are explosive.
They are the center of the room.
The life of the party.
The climax of your fantasies.
You roam,
Waiting for those miracles
Actively searching for them
Wishing them into being,
With everything
You have.
You are determined that
Your will
Will
Will them into existence.
And that they will show you
How to show others
That your life is
Worth something.
Is
In some way
Extraordinary.
Valuable.
You think that
Those loud miracles
Are the ultimate.
Are the end game.
Are the goal.
Until
It happens.
Something tiny.
Something barely noticeable.
Something you’ve
Passed on the street
Tens of times.
It will be a butterfly
That stops traffic.
And forces you
To stare.
You’ll see it for
What it is.
Something tragically beautiful.
Something beautifully tragic.
Something
Brilliant.
Astounding.
Light.
Because
Most miracles are
Not standing in the center of the stage.
Most miracles are
Most miracles are
Gentle.
Subtle.
Most miracles,
Sit dumb
Until you put your ear to their lips and
Hear them whisper their song.
The noise,
That song.
It’s Deafening
In its quiet.
And, like every cliche,
Nothing has changed.
Everything has changed.
Nothing is different
Nothing will ever be the same.
It overtakes you.
Mind.
Spirit.
Body.
The vibration runs through you and emerges
Through your dance. Through your hands.
It radiates
From your fingertips.
And turns everything you touch
Into gold.
Or
Rather,
Everything you touch
Blooms.
And reveals
That it has been gold
The entire time.
It has been gold
Since conception.
Before the interception of
‘Should’s
And
‘What if’s
And
‘Maybe’s,
It was nursed by
Was.
Is.
Being.
Presence.
These miracles
Are not the tales
Your children will speak of.
There will be no
Epic poems.
But they are the
Breath
Of the Earth.
The current underlying
Life itself.
Photo by Greg Rakozy
