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Ordinary Miracles

 Spring, rainbows,
ordinary miracles
about which
nothing new can be said.
The stars on a clear night of a New England winter; the soft air of the islands along the old Spanish Main; pirate gold shining in the palm; the odor of roses to the lover's nose.
There is no more poetry to be written of these things.
The rainbow's sudden revelation-- behold! The cliché is true! What can one say but that? So too with you, little heart, little miracle, but you are no less miracle for being ordinary.

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