Makings of a Miracle

There are, here, the makings of a miracle:
a crumbling loaf of bread,
like a body that’s spent its decades in pain,
and two fishes, like searching eyes,
and a field of trampled grass, like a bed, overused.

There is prayer here, of the petitioning sort.
There are promises consulted,
passages from a holy book, quite old.

There are many fathers and mothers here,
watching the dark,
waiting on the sun to plant its feet on the shore.

There are friends here too, and there are partners,
waiting through the night for the miracle to come.

In the grey morning light we see crumbs, unmultiplied,
and the bones of two fishes.

Many are shaking with cold, everyone is hungry.

The pleats of mist lift and our eyes turn to the morning star,
some believe it’s Jesus, some think it’s Venus.

The daily clouds arrive. Venus disappears.

Some of us linger, wait another day, some waver,
call ourselves the dearly deserted.

Some blame themselves.
Perhaps there’s something we’ve done, or failed to do.

Some stay faithful, encourage one another: explain
that miracles happen, but just out of range.

The rest of us hoist each other’s burdens,
link arms and start back for town.