I also sat in the chapel watching a flight of birds on the hillside across the canyon, abiding, thinking whatever birds think at 11 am on a Friday morning, when the priest came by, in the stillness of the after-service, to blow out the candles

This too was a poetry, a flight of birds, as he bent his body and summoned a breath of wind to smite the flame, and walked out, as if he had not just tamed a dragon

A body
This temporary arrangement marshaled to do things, deeds great and small, burning with sensations
Miracles there are on every side, and even blowing out a candle can be an act of love, 
The smallest things take wings when done with presence, here and now

When he left, the room was too much quiet and I was grateful for the faint hum of cars beyond the hill on the highway as the great world curved up around me, on every side
Hemming me in, as God and love and life always do, until we cry uncle 
And suddenly, it was too much miracle, 
The parting of a sea in me
And God, mercifully, let me drift back into my unseeing ways
And the daze which keeps me consolable 

God, too, hides his presence, after all
Lest we be smote like a great flame
Or scattered like sparrows across the sky
So He allows us remain in whatever amount of miracle 
We are willing to abide

And like birds 
We are
Watching and waiting, 
Preparing ourselves to fly

For more poetry, click here.