From a brown envelope sent by Amazon,
I pull out Bread and Miracles, a book
of poems I’ve admired for years.
I wrote the author long ago
to tell her I love her poems,
the way she makes devotion
of earthworms and camas lilies.
But there is no way to explain why
her words arrive here in my own kitchen
except through some miracle, which is,
I suppose, another name for kindness.
Whoever you are, sweet sender
of poems, thank you. Thank you
for knowing exactly what book
I might like to receive, though
I’ve never told anyone. Thank you
for knowing there would be a day
when a dear man died and I would need
to remember that goodness thrives,
that generosity flourishes, that
there are people out there who,
out of pure benevolence,
extend themselves to others.
There is a fairy tale in which
bread crumbs are insufficient to save
a brother and sister. But they are saving
this woman, and though I don’t know
where the trail began, I follow it forward
saying thank you, thank you, thank you.
Nice. Enjoyed reading…
thank you, friend … it is a lovely mystery!
Of course I love this. (‘Twas not I, though it sounds like something I would do.)
Aye, I will miss Michael. There are certain holes that will never leave; nor will the ache of them. Michael wasn’t a so much a secret agent as he was an agent who effected miracles in the crystalline waking light.
I am so happy you received your own secret agent gift. May they persist.
you were certainly on my shortlist of possibilities … it was a very thoughtful gift from someone. And oh, our dear Michael. His memorial yesterday was such a sweet celebration of his life–he brought so much love with him everywhere he went.
hugs to you, dear man, r
A friend pointed me to this, and while I’m not the one who sent the poems, I’m so glad that they have provided sustenance.
All best,
Lynn
Thank you, Lynn. It was a lovely surprise back then–I have loved your work for a long time!