We wait for skies to tear like veils,
for suns to multiply,
for angels blazing on the hills,
as if heaven must shout
to be real.

But miracles walk barefoot in the grass.
It bursts between sidewalk cracks,
a dandelion uninvited yet beautifully golden.
It sings the throaty song of a burbling creek
chuckling over smooth stones.

It lives in the bright eyes of a child
who does not yet speak
but understands your silly grin
and answers with a smile
as if the world, for a moment,
made perfect sense.

Birth is not rare,
yet it is sacred
for its creative powers
which bring forth life.

We do not need heaven to split open.
We need only to look,
and pay attention,
to our own breath,
to the hands we hold,
to the wild patience of flowers
blooming without applause.

The world is not lacking miracles.
It is a world so full of them
we have forgotten how to see.