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