John Biscello

I am learning,

or perhaps unlearning,

to believe wildly

in the fresh crop

and siege of miracles

that are happening

right under my eyes

every day.

If I fail to see them,

if my self-limiting perspective

narrows into a myopic squint,

that’s on me,

and I shouldn’t blame

the miracles

for my dearth of vision

and lack of imagination.

Outside,

an orange poppy

trembles

when drops of rain

kiss

and silver

its petals.

A child bumbles

along a carpet of fresh grass,

its cherubic face

lit up like a Mardi Gras

lantern

as she journeys newly

into the world of toddling.

A wrinkled hand,

roped in vines

of blue veins,

clasps

another vine-veined hand,

husband and wife

of sixty-four years,

this simple gesture of

you are my home

repeated over and through

many moons, laughs,

and tears.

Gulls bop-ambling along a shoreline

as a fishmongering choir,

the thousand broken azure

fingers of the sea

reaching toward

a glittering bounty of washed-up shells,

clouds as wooly prayerbeds

holding the incalculable breadth of God,

an anchored ballet of lotuses in a pond,

autumn winds turning stray leaves

into golden migrants,

stones nobly

carrying the true history of the world

in their gray silences,

the riotous joy of children

playing in the park,

a religion of its own

with no pulpit

or doctrine required,

that person

passing you in the street,

or standing next to you

in line at the supermarket,

who is you,

how they hurt

and struggle

and dream

and wonder

and worry

and grow scared

and want to be loved

just like you,

humanity

the simple common denominator

which is infinitely greater and richer

than the big-budget, whiz-bang

special effects, spectacle-scope,

my-religion-is-bigger-than-yours

form of miracles

that so many eyes

are turned toward,

breeding the skinned, reflective laments

that our souls, brute

in their divine, unrelenting wisdom

and foresight,

pose to us repeatedly

(sometimes

as inner screams,

sometimes as rippling whispers):

How much you missed today,

my love, there were miracles

everywhere,

right under your eyes, your nose,

at your fingertips,

but that’s okay, today is today

and it’s never too late

to embrace the wild gospel

of revolutionary seeing.

Optional Post-script: After you finish reading this, play the song “You Sexy Thing” (I Believe in Miracles) by Hot Chocolate, and wherever you are, the car, your living room, your office, the supermarket, commit a simple, joyous act of revolution and start dancing.