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
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