Miracles

On the morning of my sister’s burial, a small miracle happened in my living room.  I had a peace plant given to me when my father died, and I tried so hard to keep it alive.  I managed to do that, but it never bloomed after that initial flowering until the morning of my sister’s surgery for breast cancer.  Then it lay dormant again for five years.  The morning of my sister’s burial, I sat on the sofa in the living room feeling despondent when something made me look up at the peace plant on the top of the entertainment center.  There was a white flower in full bloom where none had been the day before.  The words of this poem came to me at that moment.  Like all poetry, words come from the deepest of our emotions.

Miracles

Angels reaching out
white flower unfurling
in green-leaved sanctuary
surprise in morning pain.

My soul touched by yours.
My nudge to go on
when time stands still.
My hope renewed
my faltering steps
unstumbling
steady
like stones washed
in the river.

© Barbara Flass 2005

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