Catch and let go, leaves take the light.
I let them wander into my hand,
praise the breeze that flits them away.
Miracles abound.

Last evening by the fire, light flecked
the walls, throwing shadows, picking
them up, dancing them onto the ceiling.
It is a miracle.

A simple thing, I think, light must be,
but endlessly complex in its activity.
When sun finds itself on earth, it seems
miracles come with it.

The first line is from William Stafford’s Cro-Magnon (with a phrase from Saint Theresa).