In the wake of yesterday's plane crash (emergency landing) in the Hudson River, the word miracle is being uttered by nearly everyone who reports on it. When I hear the word miracle, I always think of Whitman. Today's offering comes from Leaves of Grass.
MiraclesThe round up this week is being hosted by Karen Edmisten. Please stop by to take in all the great poetry being shared. Before you go, do check out this week's poetry stretch results. Happy poetry Friday, all!
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
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.