Counting Miracles

She Will Not Be Quiet: A (mostly unedited) daily writing practice

Counting Miracles

2/18/25

I have woken again today.

And, off in the east, the sun is rising 
right on time, turning the horizon 
a deep, delicious shade of rhubarb. 

And the dog greets me 
with tail-wagging enthusiasm 
as she always does. 

Outside my open window, 
some bird I cannot see seems to be saying 
something urgently important—

I imagine, or maybe project is a better word,
that she is urging the whole world 
to be softer, kinder, 

more aware of how we all breathe
the same air, 
with these miracle lungs.

Beside me, on the bedside table, are 19 books 
stacked high, 19 people who decided that their voices 
needed to be heard. And now bits and pieces 
of their stories, their knowings, are seeds sprouting 
inside of me.

Our planet is sick, our world is at war, 
so many hurt, and still, my gosh, still—
the songbirds fill this brand new day
with their miraculously soothing song.

And, my gosh, so many things could have 
snuffed my song, but didn't. 

Instead, I am here, five days before 
I turn another year older, counting miracles. 

I have been summoning God 
for so long now, 

and finally, on this Tuesday morning, 
here she is writing I love you 
in permanent ink. 

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