This spring as I’m walking around the yard, capturing all the beauty I see on film, I’m reminded of Walt Whitman’s poem about miracles in the everyday, which I’ve copied below. I feel so humbled and blessed to be present in the here and now. Wishing all of you the miracles that spring brings in such abundance:

Orchids bursting out all over.

A potpourri of snapdragons.

Plum tree mosaics.

A choir of petunias.

Sprays of lavender perfume.

Pots of pure gold.

Red and white valentines.

An abundance of green bursting with bees, and shimmering shades of purple perfection.

Miracles

by Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the
water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer
forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so
quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the
same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the
ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?