The miracle is that we still have sustenance at all, still love another at all, still quake with the breath of doves under the weeping stars.
The miracle is dancing upon our skin like a chill, moving its love through us with gladness, in our hunger, toward the radiance of the kind, our kind, kindness.
The miracle is an unwritten charity, a gentleness to wed with humanity. Unwritten with goodness. Books unwritten, without hierarchies of truth, unwritten with love of and for man, wordless joys given to us as bookmarks so we might remember. Words spoken, handed down to us so the future might lift our love out of invisibleness for those searchers yet to come.
Our crossing, arduous, undeniable, ancient footprints beside us, in the open, visible in our expectations seen in the beams of nightfall.
The miracle is dancing upon our skin like a chill, moving its love through us with gladness, in our hunger, toward the radiance of the kind, our kind, kindness.
The miracle is an unwritten charity, a gentleness to wed with humanity. Unwritten with goodness. Books unwritten, without hierarchies of truth, unwritten with love of and for man, wordless joys given to us as bookmarks so we might remember. Words spoken, handed down to us so the future might lift our love out of invisibleness for those searchers yet to come.
Our crossing, arduous, undeniable, ancient footprints beside us, in the open, visible in our expectations seen in the beams of nightfall.
© 2010 by mark prime
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