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.
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