what counts as a miracle these days?
waking up is so ordinary
blinking, groggy, blurry
can’t see the alarm clock, or even to find my
glasses on the nightstand.
every morning the same – not seeing.
perhaps the miracle is the fix.
sixty odd years of blinking. groggy, blurry
and knowing the snooze button by feel, slight plastic ridge
pressed once, twice for eighteen minutes more,
and then one day in the operating room.
a little amnesia with your anesthesia and
you creak one eye open and
you. can. see.
perhaps the miracle is in the coping.
thirty odd years of blinking, groggy, blurry
and my fingers find two arms of plastic,
holding together lenses – physics and chemistry and glass
doing what my eyes can’t.
with a yawn and a stretch, pulling the-not-so modern not-so-marvel glasses
upon my face and
I. can. see.
perhaps the miracle is in the waking.
a lifetime of tossing and turning
and wishing things were happier, thinner, busier
working less, playing more or
anything but how they are.
with a sigh and a mew, (re)turning from
the dream world into the morning,
we wake up and
we. can. see.
Note: This poem is part of my Lenten discipline, in which I attempt to cultivate space and quiet in order to hear from God and respond with poetry. It’s also inspired in part by my mom’s recent cataract surgery and conversations surrounding that.