Our ordinary days

Miracles

By Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,

Or stand under trees in the woods,

Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night

with any one I love,

Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,

Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,

Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,

Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet

and bright,

Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,

Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,

The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the

ships with men in them,

What stranger miracles are there?

Yes, that is Mary Poppins eating a cupcake.

Yes, big brother Thomas got her dressed.

Yes, Eeyore plays the piano.

And Elliot does too. Stravinsky, I think.

Yes, we did watch Tangled.

And yes, Russell has a baby born in Korea and named Amy. Did you doubt it? And of course, his shirt is on backwards. Would he wear it any other way?

Of course, we love doughnuts.

And we cannot help but dunk them like Grandpa Swanson.

Yes, we are terribly silly.

Absolutely, that is my hat.