Saturday, April 28, 2018


After Walt Whitman's,

Why, who makes much of miracles?
As for myself, I know nothing but miracles.
Whether I stroll the woodland trail washed
   with mountain laurel,
Or lift my eyes to watch
   the bald eagle cutting through azure skies,
Or stand under the redbud tree
   wearing lilac lace,
Or pet the soft coat of a puppy,
Or look at newborn calves
   frolicking in verdant pastures,
Or splash barefooted through
   the icy waters of Hyatt-Mill Creek,
Or play with my great-niece
   riding her tricycle,
Or the Full Pink Moon
   shining through my bedroom window,
Or new life bursting forth
   from the earth at spring;
These with the rest, one and all,
   are to me miracles.
                  --Brenda Kay Ledford


The morning light ricochets through the poplars echoing with birdsong. Native orchids peek through the pine needles on the woodland...