Like A Miracle

When I hunger for air

it is always there guiding

lungs awake like a miracle.

When I thirst, water

finds my parched mouth

wet as a miracle.

 

When I long for love

it greets me from everything

natural and in the eyes

of my animals sparkling

like a miracle.

 

When life needs living

it’s there inside me, a hearth

and homestead in my heart,

even if I overlooked the miracles

of air, water, nature and

all those loving eyes.

 

J. Pratt-Walter 

4/3/2022 

The All-Miracle Church of Earth

 In our curve of time the framework of Love

is still being dreamt open –

Love seeps and strokes into the wounds of the spirit

like silk blessing the first leaf born of the first bud,

unrolled atop the first root, enshrined from the first Source.

 

Beloved ones precious as air lace our seconds and days together,

a vivid shawl sewn in the cadence of our kaleidoscope souls.

 

The slow streams preach their smooth water-truths,

the snow is its refrain: “Shhh love now, shhh love often”

they whisper to us like salamanders in the shape-shift moments.

 

Love weaves through the gills of our being

alive together on this All-Miracle Church of Earth,

of everything hallowed, brokenly true,

of all things Yes, igniting us while capturing fallen sparks

chimed from the ecstatic tongues of stars.

  

 J. Pratt-Walter, © 2021

Soliloquy NaPoWriMo #1

They say our air mustn’t cross paths

on the way to our lungs.


But I have companions in this isolation –

Sometimes when I look down

I see my mother’s legs

complete with knee-knobs, and my hands

wear her fingers shaped by arthritis.


My dad is visiting

when I glance into a mirror.

There his face shadows

my own:  his nose, the shape

of his smile walking over my mouth.



And how your eyes mapped every inch

of my skin -- all over me, tiny miracles

from you are here, so alive!

That’s when I realize we need not touch

to be touched.


J. Pratt-Walter, 4/1/2020

Notice

If you are grinding through this world

seeking all those magical truths,

your eyes are stopped unless

you pause to notice


the clasp and tallying eyes of a

praying mantis


or how a bean seed shoulders up

its horseshoe curve and tastes the air and rain

before committing its leaves


or how huckleberries talk

like fairies to the coming Autumn

then drop.


J. Pratt-Walter, © 2019

All the Modest Miracles

This is the fire

when truth spills out

of a poem.  You were one thing,

but deep with writing, you

become a being aflame.

This is the air

I am exchanging with you.

It has touched everything

on Earth in its own time. It lives in

all the right fires.

We are two pages in a book, stitched

side by side.  Our words are different

but we feed each other

meaning, forking our eyes

at each other’s print,

recognizing the modest miracles

that ask for nothing.

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 2019