Miracle, a poem

Miracle

Love was once another color,

a deeper color. The suns and storms

of summer faded it, incessant

in their song of murmured rain.

I remember the richness of lawns

so green I would have set them shining

against the topaz morning and strung

a necklace of endless day for you.

You scoffed when I sought miracles

in each new day, along our path

from here to there, to our sunset.

Yes, I call it miracle.

A miracle must be in the eye

of the beholder. Its origin

matters not, only its meaning.

What meaning has a morning, now?

It has become the stuff of old

books, a wonder written down

for those who will believe. I can

no longer claim it as my own.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

I kept trying to tack an extra verse on this and kept deciding that it would take away more than it added. So here it is. I had thought more writing might help 'explain' the poem, but maybe it needs no more explanation. None the less, I will say that it is, at least in part, about writing that recalls the 'miracles' of our past. And that, of course, is in itself, a sort of miracle.