I Am Here

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
while God waits for you
inside the grain of the table.

Just this,
whispers the rock.

Just this wind.
Just this ache.
Just this moment
arriving barefoot
through the open gate of your life.

Do not rush to improve the garden.
Sit long enough
for the roses and weeds
to speak the same language.

There is a joy
that does not depend upon victory.
There is a peace
that survives even your failures.
Drink from that hidden well.

Then awe will find you everywhere—
in the cry of a gull,
in the laughter from another room,
in the trembling leaf,
in the aging of your own hands.

And one day,
while staring at something
small and forgotten,
you will hear the whole creation
calling out like lovers in the dark:

I am here.
I am here.
I am here.