Miracles

I water the flower,

wipe away what spills over,

and hang the towel on a hook.

My lover watches our child grow up.

Misses her already.

Can draw, from memory,

the woman she will become.

I take the flower outside,

place it on the porch rail

to provide it with light and air.

I clear webs and debris from the leaves.

The terracotta pot has smudges of dirt

covering the printed surface.

My lover wants to feel the sun soak deep

into skin, perhaps

into bones.

It’s a remedy for imaginary frostbite.

I water the flower, feed it to produce

miracles,

bring it back into the kitchen.

The bloom is bright, like something lived there,

and painted each petal.

My lover creates animals from stone,

forms bodies with bare hands.

Not realizing  I watch as these fingers

spin shapes from nothing.

I gather the fragments from the floor,

sweep soil into a pile, then whisk it out the door.

The flower mingles with apple peels and coffee grounds,

its color crushed to pastel.