When the smallness of my vision
Dampens all hope inside, I simply watch
And these clumsy feet keep moving.
When what could have been
Turns bitter and dusty from wear
I feel the tiniest move as a miracle.
When the bit is cold in my mouth and
When daylight reveals only a potholed
Road, just the sound of my feet can comfort.
Rising up from this pain is not grand or special;
If it says anything it says star dust knows,
It says come with me just one more time.
Miracles always have their own strange rhythm;
To know them is to place power into the possible
And God as surprised as anyone when they happen.
Dale Biron is a poet and former board member of A Network for Grateful Living. Posted by kind permission of the poet.
call it our craziness even, call it anything. it is the life thing in us…
And a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty. And he answered: Where shall you…
. . . and silence is the golden mountain. —Jack Kerouac Listen. Turn everything off….
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