The stone did not preach to me.
It did not open like a prophet’s mouth.
It simply rested
in the afternoon light,
completely itself. And something in me,
so long thirsty for thunder,
finally knelt before silence. Beloved,
the miracle is not elsewhere. It is the porch.
The worn wood beneath your feet.
The bird balancing on the wire.
The cup cooling in your hand.
The old dog breathing in sleep.
The ordinary face of the world removing its veil. You search for the burning bush
whi