This I Believe

A Week’s Worth of Miracles

Sunday

the Book says Moses

stretched out his hand over the sea.

I’m not certain

the Lord drove back the waters,

that the conception of Jesus

was immaculate

or even that He rose from the dead.

But I do believe in miracles

Monday

outside my window

I notice the leaves of the hydrangea

drooping

the blue petals have lost

some of their fragrant hue.

Gently I pour water over them.

They must feel so blessed

they are, again

their own sprightly selves

Tuesday

in the middle of a long night

the world so much with us,

my wife

quietly takes hold my hand

and one, by one, by one

all the celestial bodies

fall into alignment

Wednesday

a former student tosses off a poem

and mails it to me.

As a teacher, I‘d often said

“Write less; rewrite more.”

By return mail I receive a gift of words

so much the same, yet so transformed

I sit and read, embraced in awe

Thursday

I have a bad cold.

A friend who hears me coughing

calls, just to say

in his gruff, manly way

“You take care of yourself, Bobby.”

Healing starts with a wish

and I am well on the path

Friday

I dream a sixth lesson

still to be taught, still to be owned.

It has to do with the peaceable kingdom

where the lion will lie down with the lamb.

I see the sons of Abraham

Ishmael, Isaac, and their generations

twined, not by the sword

but by the heft of a plowshare

Sabbath

reminds me

to everything there is a season.

I feel the love of woman

and of man

Nature, great and small.

Why should not this day, I ask,

be time and place enough

for miracles?