A Brief Definition of Miracles

Sam Rasnake

Junkyard hulls, after rain, rust down to nothing.
My notebooks are shelved above those certain leaks
from the baseboard to their pools on the floor.

Sometimes Jesus walks on water.
Sometimes he dies, but the little girl
holds a flower in her left hand,
and with her other hand she counts,
finger by finger, all pieces on the board-
Castle, Knight, Bishop, Pawn-until
the boy has no idea which play to use,
until the boy is lost in possibilities.

For weeks, we stack wood against the house,
cans of vegetables in the basement, ready
for a hint of cold that huddles its October
in hard chambers of the wind.

I sit at my desk and cry.
Someone is painting over my window,
sage green on glass,
a reminder of the beautiful.

When you let fall the cup,
it breaks on the kitchen floor.

We find slivers for days.
And that keeps us whole.