the day is saturated with the colors of changing leaves
the shifting of pigment, shunting sugar and sap to trunk.
these days the miracles are small. a miracle might be not
killing the spider you saw in the corner of your closet, or
not calling out as someone you think you recognize walks
past your car where you are sitting chain-smoking
and hating it. the ivy that climbs the wire spanning
the highway on your way home–how you love to see
it creeping further and further along each day, and now,
that scarlet flush that has ignited along the bottom edge
of the vine as people complain about the chill in the air
the same way they complain about the humidity and heat
the same way they complain about people who talk but
don’t communicate–the woman who spoke to you about
how she ran upstairs weeping, after pulling the eggplant,
still living, from the garden–they are alive, she said through
her tears–these are miracles, the miracles of awareness,
the simultaneous joyous swoop an eagle takes when
the air currents are just right and the unbearable cold
spot on your sheets where you are still sleeping with ghosts,
the miracles of a tree dropping its leaves and letting go,
the way people should learn to let go, to let the miracle
of themselves dapple the world, like light on a windowsill
filtered down through the tree of our hearts.


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