From the second poetry workshop—and lovely Saturday morning—that I wrote about here.
How is a miracle born?
It starts as a seed, cupped in the palm of your hand.
It germinates in the earth, drinking in soil and water and air.
It loves time.
A miracle grows with a rhythm of its own, dancing with the intelligence of Life that surrounds it,
by the deep pulsing of the earth.
A miracle is earthly magic.
Do not be fooled: there is art in the first leaf that sprouts,
but the forces unseen are an orchestra of scientific precision.
A miracle is what we call the flower whose birth we did not witness.
Beneath your feet
this very moment
are seeds just waiting to grow.