It’s sort of like a miracle, she says,

every time she wins a game,

because she never expects or intends to.

It’s sort of like a miracle

that the bread rose so beautifully,

and the potato bugs went away,

and the pancakes were so perfect

and the wildflower seeds she sowed

exploded into bloom.

It’s sort of like a miracle, big time,

that Ariel, an inside cat,

was locked outside for four days

and survived,

and that Pepper found his way home

after three days gone,

and that little Oscar hid in the barn

until he was found.

That the bottle of wine did not break

when it hit the floor,

that the car did not flip over

when it left the road,

that when she fell on the ice

she did not break a bone—

it’s sort of like a miracle

how many miracles there are!

And here’s the one I’ve thought of

every day for thirty years:

how she died on the Life Flight

to the hospital that grim night

and then came back again.

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