Miraculous
Walking outdoors, in jeans and a fleece jacket,
On a gleaming, fifty-eight-degree afternoon in northern Wisconsin,
Which, normally (until recent years, anyway),
With spring being just a week or so away,
Would still register throat-choking, below-zero temperatures,
With every inch of earth buried in six-foot drifts of silent whiteness,
And breathing in this crisp, clean, bright, warm March air
Feel so refreshing, invigorating, marvelous, fantastic, miraculous,
As though this extraordinary day were a magical hen
Stolen from a giant's beanstalk tree-house,
A fairy-tale creature that might never stop laying its eggs —
One golden sun forever after another forever-after, forever.
03/13/12 - (4)
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