What a miracle it is, to own life.
To have roots that set themselves in to the earth,
And branches that breathe,
And leaves that blossom and flutter downward
And what a miracle it is, to carry life.
To place one’s hand over the skin of a womb,
And feel the gentle beating, thumping, fluttering,
Of a human
Within generations and generations,
Of humans who did the same.
And what a miracle it is, to know life.
To have a cycle of life that can’t be altered
By the hands of a man or the lips of woman.
That can’t be more precise than what’s already left,
For us to decipher.
And what a miracle it is, to feel life.
To feel the sun soak through your skin,
The tears of joy stain your cheeks,
The unavoidable laughter erupt over you,
The way Mt. Vesuvious did over Pompei.
Life is just such a miracle today,
From a child opening it’s eyes for the first time,
To a tree on a sidewalk in Manhattan that’s surrounded by trash,
But is still breathing,
What a miracle it is,
To be living.