There’s a gathering wind out there. The moon is loud and full, and the clouds have been gusted away up there to make room for the painting, and the trees are snapping and flinging their branches away. Sometimes I don’t know whether or not my poemintros are poems themselves. I do know that after a long, long Wicked Wednesday, I am ready to write something stormworthy. I just cursed out autocorrect for insisting upon me that I separate those words. Dammit, autocorrect! Don’t you know I’ll misspoem something if I damn well want?
This block I’m teaching a creative writing class, so you’d think I’d get the poeming done early, but it seems like I’m not able, at least in these last two hectic weeks. I have exactly two lines from our freewrite time to go on. So, there I begin. I wrote that several minutes ago. I sure can kill a minute.
When Will It?
When will your miracle arrive? Has it already? And if it had, how would you know? Was it that smile of that first babe? and if it was, if that was your miracle, does that mean when you need one, you are out of luck and moonlight? How do you know when your miracle, your one saving grace, is spent? How do you recognize a miracle when it happens, and what if you fail to see it? Does it count, then, in the giant count-off? Do you count each smile or moment of grace? Does each kindness count then, to offset the inevitable, why, I figure it might then,
because we only get, only,
the one miracle.
Goodnight, Wednesday readers of poem.