What miracle will this body reveal today? What lesson? What truth?
I’m ready. I’m listening. This breath is the proof.
There’s a path in the canyon. It winds through the mist. Is it this?
Waterfalls and ravens. Stones and downed trees. Is it that?
Or is it the place where my ancestors once walked?
Is it their well and their garden? Is it their dark crusty bread?
The song of their language is light on the wind.
Now they are children. They laugh with their friends.
Come in for supper. Warm my heart and your hands.
I stand up and stretch. Feel the sun on my limbs. Is this what it is?
.
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Categories: Sweet Sleep and Bare Feet
Tags: Ancestors, Bread, Breath, Children, Friends, Gardens, Hands, Language, Laughter, Listening, Memory, Mind and Body, Miracles, Mist, Ravens, Singing, Stones, Trees, Truth, Waterfalls, Wind
William Michaelian 
No doubt it is a kind of flowering.
The heart opens and eternity enters.
I am sure of what is…
Real perception barely dicible.
Now God is…
Thanks a lot, William.
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I thank you, Béatrice. Because it’s the kind reader who bears the bouquet.
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Here, we walk with you and break bread at your table.
Giving thanks.
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Though I shy away from the word “your,” I say, as humbly as I am able, “welcome.”
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Such a good question, William. As our days draw close, what will each one left to us bring?
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The miracle, I think — or one miracle, anyway — is simply being able to ask. Thanks, Elisabeth.
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