On The Inherent Duality Of Miracles

On The Inherent Duality Of Miracles long poem

Photo by SebastianDooris

I am waiting for a miracle.
A miracle of meteorological proportions.
A miracle whose atmospheric propositions
would be large enough to render it,
and anything appertaining to it,
be it high up in the sky that ends it,
or down beneath the earth that kicks it into action,
thoroughly secular and completely devoid of
any sacredness, which it, perhaps, perhaps,
still wants to be quite full of—
no matter how modern it has now become,
no matter how technical it has now become:
no matter how realistic, no matter how mundane
the substance it is yet to stop feeding on
has become…

I wonder if, by any chance, the miracle
waiting now for me to be waiting for it
will continue to cling to the abstract saintliness
of the place whence it comes;
and I also wonder if, perhaps, perhaps,
the true miraculous nature of this miracle
is not the stubbornness with which
it still wants to be what it has always been—
or I wonder, too, if, on the contrary,
the true miracle at the heart of this miracle
is not the stubbornness with which
the evolution it has gone through already
wants it as incrementally fast as possible
robbed of any residual godly powers
it may still be in secret possession of.

The miracle which I have now been waiting for—
for quite some time,
for even longer than it has taken the said time to pass,
is now straddling the two equally conservative worlds
wanting to have it be for all eternity
an inextricable part of their respective universes.

Which will eventually be successful in pulling it in
I do not know, I cannot know, I will not know—
In the end it all depends on the strengths
of each of their weather systems:
which will be pulling at it with the force
of a limitless number of atmospheres
of practically unlimited proportions
will emerge victorious,
and be the judge of this particular miracle’s
final destiny and fundamental nature.

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