Miracles

When the smallness of my vision
Dampens all hope inside, I simply watch
And these clumsy feet keep moving.

When what could have been
Turns bitter and dusty from wear
I feel the tiniest move as a miracle.

When the bit is cold in my mouth and
When daylight reveals only a potholed
Road, just the sound of my feet can comfort.

Rising up from this pain is not grand or special;
If it says anything it says star dust knows,
It says come with me just one more time.

Miracles always have their own strange rhythm;
To know them is to place power into the possible
And God as surprised as anyone when they happen.

Dale Biron is a poet and former board member of A Network for Grateful Living. Posted by kind permission of the poet.