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.