You don’t get to say how the light will shine
why the eyes illuminate the shadow,
or even why the moon peeks through the dark trees
when you feel the subtle glitter of the evening,
shivering from cold around your skin
yet hopeful that the snow may soon arrive
so much joy in the deep of midnight.
you don’t get to declare
a percentage for miracles
or when and where they come,
or what form they take.
Life itself is unexpected,
the moments of inspiration,
soul medicine no healer can give,
miracles of birth and death,
and miracles in between called breath,
even star embracing star after star
tears as waterfalls drowning together,
until the blackened sky is broken
bright light expands into clear blue ocean
and darkness scatters aimlessly into sand,
eager for all the moments that follow,
every step is something wonderful
lifting every foot that’s tripped into the night.
Soul in the machine 
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