August 11, 2026

certain miracles

Shorts weather. A full set of fine-tipped markers.
When the dog comes to you, unbidden. A letter,
revealed beneath the supermarket circulars. Someone
who says, “I thought of you when I saw this.” Sunflowers.
Lemonade stands in small towns. The sheer number
of hotel pillows, like a greeting from a kind stranger.
The first in a series of wild blackberries. When the bee sting
finally stops itching. Tears at the ready whenever you need them.
The penultimate line of a poem that becomes, suddenly, a lantern.
Silence turning into presence turning into patience turning into wonder.