The Morning After

the Miracle

The morning after the miracle 

I sat in unspoken silence.

The sky outside my window

bared a bruise,

sole survivor

of a beatific harrow.

Steam from a rooftop pipe 

released a frenzied genie

of diaphanous steam

setting it free 

to evaporate.

Above, 

a crowd of clouds like

abandoned parade balloons

hovered; somber onlookers

to what had

transpired in the night.

Pulling my attention back 

to the room,

I shut up like a telescope,

mourning the cessation

of months of hymns;

now no more than

faded headlines

heralding yesterday’s 

life changing news.

I sat dumbfounded,

tranquil as an animal,

naked, weary, alone,

leary of those thoughts

that would intrude

upon this holy purity,

thoughts that think

themselves 

regardless

of rhyme or reason. 

My wish, 

(the prayer

of a child 

who doesn’t

know how

to pray)

was simply

to hold onto

this emptiness

in my hands

without 

need to

fill them with

a greater

purpose.

If not a wish,

a prayer,

if not a prayer,

a psalm,

if not a psalm,

a poem,

if not a poem, 

a spell,

if not a spell,

a dream,

if not a dream,

a work of art.

It was enough

to be present,

emptied of expectation,

gazing at

the arrival of 

this glorious

newborn day.

12/26/21