Few miracles are meant for human eyes.
We speak of miracle and point. We tag it so,
but what we tag is but a mise-en-scène.
Heart-stopping though it is, the miracle
remains where it belongs: backstage.
Most miracles are shy. Invisible. You see
but ripples from them in our time and space.
We recognise them in the wonder that we feel.
Just think of when you wake and feel yourself alive:
you know you've come back from a mini death.
You are sensing the dimensions of a miracle.
The growing child does not display
the way a billion axons meet
their dendrites in the dark.
There is no check list, manual
or precedent. The growing child does this,
his milieu is his guide. We see
the consequences written large
in how she grows, moves, talks. The work
is underground, like roots in soil.
New lines are draw, new circuits laid,
the stop-gaps are dismantled constantly.
As each connection breaks or is remade
another miracle is chalked up on the board outside.
We clap our hands and rightly praise the growing child.
This is a Poetry Jam submission. The task was simply to write a poem about a miracle.
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