You in that Old Ratty Sweater

Aim for the simple 

hidden acts of love
which keep time ticking 
like tiny golden gears 
in the pocket-watch of the stars.

Reach for the ordinary goodness
that rarely makes the news 
but forms the loamy ground on which we walk.
Paths our ancestors wore in the living of their days
now yield to our imprint, gently propelling us 
out of the gravity of singularity 
to leap beyond ourselves and see that I am 
because they were and we are.

Take the unassuming 
nondescript scrap
tossed by the wind across the parking lot
holding the list written in your hand 
bread, eggs, fruit, mustard
milk

and
the essential
worker 
driving the bus, behind the counter, 
leaning over the patient.

Care little for pithy memes and what is trending now
or the preening of curated selves
in your reflection on the screens.

It is you in that old ratty sweater
rising up 
to lean down and put on your shoes,
pouring milk on your cereal
praying for your children 
you
whom I am trusting in and living for.

The woman in the red hat
waiting at the corner for the light to change 
waves back when I wave. 

For a moment, an eternity, 
the struck flame of connection 
crackles between us
tugs us from our separate cells,

uniting to say 
we are one here on this corner
and indeed, we are made of miracles.

Every day 
communion is served on a corner near you
eucharist pours from heaven
runs down the street 
children jump in the puddles -
maybe you do too.