What I Call A Miracle

Bent over, hobbling,
each step a new kind of pain
dark and bone-deep,
like the scraping metal of a spoon in an empty bowl,
like the crush of the crowd
stumbling over the homeless body in the street.

This world will steal the purple joy from my heart, if I let it.

But then I feel the sun warm on my face.
This will break the spell,
and the bad dream recedes.
The landscape rolling,
a healing flowing
from rivers,
known and unknown –
St. Croix, Mississippi,
and the swimming pool of my childhood home.

Despair blown away with delight,
remembering the way I felt,
eager and free
wind blowing in my hair
eyes streaming in sun and happiness,
gazing over the cottonwoods
laid out in endless sighing green.

This is what I call a miracle.

Door photo by Michele Montserrat, 2016.

Rolling Forest – stock photo image from Pexels.