Who makes much of miracles?

I know of nothing else but miracles,
           whether I walk Manhattan’s streets
or raise my eyes over the roofs of houses
           toward the sky
or wade barefoot along the beach
           just in the water’s edge
or stand under trees in the woods
           or talk by day with anyone I love
or sleep in bed at night
           with the woman I love
or sit at a table
           to share a meal
or look at strangers
           riding the same train
or watch the busy buzz
           of honey-bees around the hive
or cattle calmly feeding in the fields
           or the flight of birds
chasing insects in the air
           or the wonder of sundown
of stars shining through
           or the curve of a new moon
in the bright black night
           all miracles to me
that life with all its gifts
           breath brings to me

John Lyons

Adapted from ‘Miracles’, by Walt Whitman