I take
the succulent juice of the orange
as if it is not a miracle
that my tongue acknowledges it.
I take
the wafting scent of wildflowers
as if it is not a miracle
that my nose inhales it.
I take
the bright light of the morning sun
as if it is not a miracle
that my eyes receive it.
I take
the soft breeze of autumn’s evening
as if it is not a miracle
that my skin can feel it.
I take
the symphony of a thousand crickets
as if it is not a miracle
that my ears can enjoy it.
What then
for he who knows
it is all a miracle?